All That Glitters is Not Gold
by LuckyLadybug
Summary: Joe is not happy when ex-friend and conman Roger Bard is ungraciously deposited on his doorstep. And to make matters worse, in the middle of coping with Roger's latest problem, he suddenly receives the news that a very old and dear friend has been murdered. Not to mention someone resembling him in every particular was injured the same night.
1. Chapter 1

**Mannix**

**All That Glitters is Not Gold**

**By Lucky_Ladybug**

**Notes: The characters from the show are not mine. The other characters and the story are! This involves characters from the season 2 episode **_**All Around the Money Tree**_**, but is not really a sequel to that episode. I'm writing the Big Bad like a Victor Buono character, because Victor's characters are always colorful and fun and I highly enjoy them. I can't guarantee how often this will be updated; this first chapter has gone through periods of sitting around for weeks before being returned to and updated again when inspiration struck. I finally got it to where it seems to be done, so I decided to post it and see if it's a story I can follow through to completion.**

**Chapter One**

He was running, fleeing from the enemies who had been after him in hot pursuit for what seemed like a mile or more. There was no one behind him now, but he wasn't willing to chance that they weren't near. His heart pounded in his ears as he jumped over the railing at the side of the highway, landing on the downward side of a hill. Without skipping a beat, he kept right on going.

Maybe if he ran far enough and fast enough, he could get back to the heart of the city. There was someone he knew there. If only the chap would be willing to help, even after everything! It seemed unlikely, but his old friend often did the unlikely. Maybe there was still hope.

But he was too occupied with thoughts of this sliver of hope to pay enough attention to what he was doing. He slammed headlong into a tall man stumbling towards the hill from the other direction.

Both men gave yelps of surprise and pain, nearly crashing to the grassy knoll from the force of the impact. The younger of the two bounced back almost instantly, weaving his way around the stranger with only an offhand call of "Frightfully sorry!" over his shoulder.

His lip curled in disgust a moment later. Really, sometimes his British roots made him act more polite than he should. That could have been one of the hired lackeys out to bring him back.

If it were, however, the stranger was stupid enough to not even realize what had happened. He did nothing to stop the British man's exit. Instead he staggered back as though drunk, holding a trembling hand to his bleeding forehead. His glasses gleamed in the moonlight.

Oblivious to the stranger's plight, the frantic younger man practically flew over the grass and towards an abandoned shack he had noticed from the road. It was the remains of an old pumphouse or some such thing. It would be perfect to hide in for a few moments to observe what was going on outside. If necessary, he could escape through a back door and keep running without being seen.

Thankfully, the lock had rusted so badly that opening the front door was easy. He rushed through it, shutting it behind him as swiftly and as quietly as he could. Then he leaned against it, breathing heavily, and tried to smirk in the darkness—but he failed. He was honestly frightened. This didn't yet feel like a victory. And it wasn't.

The click of a lamp's string made him stiffen in alarm and shock. He had not arrived first, as he had believed.

"Well," a much-too-calm voice said, "the fly has walked right into the spider's web, as it always does eventually."

He pushed himself away from the door, feigning the cocky attitude that most people saw. "Oh, come off it," he declared. "You don't want to rough me up. What purpose would there be in it?"

"As I see it, possibly a great deal," was the reply. "Maybe with a little taste of what's in store for you, you'll settle down and cooperate. We already have dear Claudia, as you well know." A nod to someone else in the room.

He only barely managed to turn in time to see the thugs on either side of the door before one of them kicked out, hitting him in the stomach. He gasped and fell back, doubling over in pain.

The second man struck him on the back, sending him to the floor. Then, as he lay sprawled and helpless, they both kicked at and hit him at once. Their boss simply reclined in his chair, relishing the show.

"Do you have anything to say yet?"

He squeezed his eyes shut against the pain. No matter how he tried, he was not being left alone long enough to get up. He was not a fighter. He always tried to find non-violent solutions wherever possible.

"Mannix," he groaned, almost without thinking.

"Mannix?" The voice was derisive. "What about Mannix?"

"He'd . . . he'd help us," he mumbled. "He's the only one who would."

"Then we'll take you to him. But you know you could avoid all of this if you would simply talk."

Another strike to his back made him flinch and clutch at the scattered tools on the floor. "I don't _know,_" he hissed in desperation.

"That's the wrong answer."

At a gesture, the beating continued.

He cried out when something hard smacked into the side of his head. "Mum . . . never had any idea there'd be days like this," he groaned.

"Of course, your 'mum' didn't know you were going to be a rotten thief and a liar now, did she?"

"I don't know where your ruddy gold is," he retorted. "I'll admit I had it, but someone took it from me and . . ." He shouted at another sharp kick near his chest.

"That's just too bad. Well, even if that's the truth, you need to be taught a lesson. When you deal with me, unfortunately, you're going to get burned."

"Oh, I've learned that," he insisted, trying too hard to be convincing. "I have, really. I . . ."

Something hit him again, this time slamming his head into the floor. His entire body jerked and then was still.

The men continued to pound at him without mercy, even though now they were not getting a reaction. Even the arrival of another thug, bringing a brunette woman at gunpoint, did not elicit any reprieve from the cruelty.

"Roger!" she cried, horrified at the sight. She ran forward, heedless of the gun still pointed at her back, and grabbed for the arm of one of the attackers. "He can't even fight back now! What's wrong with all of you?! Stop!"

The grunt pulled his arm away, kicking at the lifeless form.

Again she tugged in vain. Finally she turned, her hair whipping around her shoulders as she faced the man in the shadows. He was unashamedly enjoying the beating.

"My men make such an art out of violence," he proclaimed. "Instead of just randomly striking here or kicking there in a horrifyingly brutal fashion, they bring it out almost like a dance. Don't you think so, Claudia?"

The woman's eyes flashed. "This is senseless! He can't tell you anything. He might even be dead!"

"Hmm. True." The man clapped his hands commandingly. "Alright, boys, that's enough."

Obediently they stopped and stepped back, waiting for their next instructions.

Claudia promptly fell to her knees, turning Roger onto his back with care and lifting his head into her lap. "Roger! Oh Roger, please, say something!" She stroked his hair, brushing the blond bangs out of his eyes. Roger didn't stir, laying deathly pale against her and the floor.

The man in the shadows frowned as he studied the scene. "Is he dead?"

One of his men pulled the limp body up by the collar of his suit coat, amid Claudia's heated protests. "He's still breathing."

"Then find out who Mannix is and go dump him there," his boss ordered. "Maybe that man will help me achieve what I want."

Claudia rose, snatching out in vain to take hold of Roger. "Let's leave Mannix out of this," she insisted.

"Ah, then you know him," the ringleader proclaimed.

"I know that he isn't likely to want to do anything for us, after everything we've done to him," Claudia snapped.

"Then if that's true, we'll hear it from Mannix, not you." The man studied the motionless form. "Hmm. Boys, you really were too rough on him this time around."

"Sorry, Boss." One of them glanced to the fuming Claudia. "Is she coming with us?"

"No, dear Claudia will remain here," was the purred reply. "I have to have _some_ insurance. I suppose, anyway. Maybe Roger won't lift a finger to help her once he gets free. He's always saying how she can take care of herself."

Claudia gave him a bitter glare. It was true; she was very resourceful and had certainly got them both out of more than one tight situation. Roger was very proud of her for that and liked that he didn't usually have to worry about rescuing a damsel in distress. But their latest enemy was one neither of them had been able to beat. Roger knew that all too well and he wouldn't abandon her because of it.

"Roger isn't heartless, as you probably think he is," she declared.

"We shall see. Take him away." The man waved a hand in a dismissive manner.

The thugs obeyed, locking their arms underneath their prisoner's and dragging him out the door. He remained lifeless in their grasp, a bit of blood trickling from his nose and mouth.

Their boss leaned back, lacing his fingers in thoughtfulness. "And if Mannix can't or won't help me, that's just too bad for him _and_ Roger. And you, dear Claudia."

Claudia glowered at her captor. "If you kill us, you'll only discover it was done in vain since we don't know where your gold is."

"Kill you? Why, since I believe at least one of you knows very well where it is, there wouldn't be any reason to kill you." He smiled at her in the near-darkness. "But that doesn't mean you both won't wish I had done it anyway."

Claudia's skin began to crawl. She had to admit, she certainly wished Mannix would help them out of just one more jam. Maybe, since he was a better person than either of them, he still would.

xxxx

It was a quiet and slow evening at Joe Mannix's combination office and apartment. He leaned back at his desk, idly studying the file for a case he had just closed—a complex kidnapping and blackmail scheme that had ended up very heart-wrenching all around.

Really, sometimes he wondered why he became involved in such cases. That one had not had a happy ending. Right now he was drained and tired of all cases. He wanted to go to bed. But he kept staring at that file anyway.

In the outer office, he could hear Peggy shuffling about at the coffee maker. She had kept the coffee coming at all hours of the day and night, as she always did. Now they were at the end of another pot. But the hour was much too unseemly to start another.

"Hey, Peggy," he called. "It's getting late. You might as well go on home."

Peggy appeared in the doorway. "I was just about to say the same thing," she said with a smile. "Toby should be getting ready for bed now, and . . ." She paused, noticing the file in Joe's hand. "Joe? Are you alright?"

Joe dropped it down on the desk. "Yeah, yeah. I'm fine, Peggy," he said gruffly.

She looked at him with sympathy and understanding. "I know that was a really difficult case for you, Joe. I'm still reeling from the outcome myself."

"A kidnapped kid who wasn't kidnapped at all, but was dead before this whole thing even started," Joe found himself ranting. He often unloaded his feelings on Peggy. She made a good listening board.

"And that poor mother who couldn't accept it and still insisted on believing he was alive," Peggy shuddered.

"What really gets me is that her husband wouldn't lift a finger to get her any help because he was trying to close a business deal and he couldn't have a scandal like that get out," Joe growled. "So he cooked up the fake kidnapping scheme to explain there not really being a kid there. And he killed that jerk that was going to expose the death and his wife's mental breakdown. What's she going to do now that she won't have him, either?!"

Peggy looked down. There really wasn't much that could be said to that.

"I don't think he was all there either, from what you told me about his confession," she said at last. "Maybe the judge will be lenient."

"Maybe," Joe conceded. "The whole thing is just so messed-up and unreal I can still hardly believe it."

"You did all you could, Joe," Peggy said quietly. She came to the desk to retrieve the file. "Try not to think about it anymore."

"That's easier said than done, Peggy," Joe retorted. "I've _tried_ not to think about it. It keeps coming back."

"Maybe you'll feel better in the morning," Peggy encouraged. "Why don't you just go upstairs for now and . . ."

A loud thump and the screeching of tires interrupted her and sent Joe rising from the chair. "What the . . ." He hurried past his bewildered secretary, making his way to the door. As he flung it open, the sight of a body on the doorstep elicited a horrified gasp from Peggy.

"The people in that car just dumped him here!" she cried in disbelief.

Joe stared after the fleeing vehicle, but it was too far ahead to hope to catch the license number. So instead he bent over the motionless form, checking for life.

"He's still alive," he reported. "Peggy, call an ambulance. No, wait a minute." He stopped and stared, gaping at the familiar features when he shifted the battered man to face him.

Peggy's mouth dropped open. "Joe, isn't that . . ."

Joe gave a grim nod. "Roger Bard, conman extraordinaire and a former tenant of the Paseo Verde. I wonder what he's gotten himself into this time. More to the point, I wonder what he's gotten _me_ into."

Roger groaned, weakly. Joe bent over him, draping one limp arm over his shoulders and trying to drag him to his feet. "Come on, Roger," he said. "I'll get you inside and put you on the couch until the ambulance gets here."

Roger heard enough to try to take a step forward, but his legs crumpled, nearly sending both him and Joe to the floor. Joe had to practically drag him to the couch, not daring to carry him upon having encountered the painful bruises on his chest and ribs.

"Someone really did a number on old Roger," he frowned. He laid Roger's upper body on the soft couch, grim as he swung Roger's legs up as well.

"We haven't seen or heard of him since that incident with the stolen money in his ceiling," Peggy remarked, going to the phone.

Joe went to dampen a cloth from the water cooler. "Obviously he's been keeping busy."

As he returned to Roger and began to clean the blood from a cut on his face, Roger's ice-blue eyes flickered open. "Mannix, old boy," he said with a weak, pained smile. "So they really did bring me to you."

Joe sighed. "And you really have got me into another mess. Haven't you, Roger?"

"Dreadfully sorry. I . . . ow." Roger winced as the cut stung. "I was afraid you wouldn't be too keen on seeing me after that little escapade with the stolen money."

"Well . . . you're right." Joe moved on to another wound. "I'm not. But I'm too nice a guy to just leave you bleeding on my welcome mat. And even if I wasn't, Peggy wouldn't stand for it."

"Good show," Roger smiled.

Looking even wearier, Joe added, "But there's no way anyone would know to bring you here unless you told them to. And you've got a lot of nerve saying that, Roger, after all the tricks you pulled on me."

"I suppose that wasn't very sporting of me, was it," Roger mused. "Really, Joe, I don't know how your name slipped out. Especially when I imagine you're still angry with me because of our past."

Joe stopped and gave the other man a hard look. "Unfortunately, it's really hard to stay mad at you when you're obviously so used to double-crossing people and being double-crossed yourself that you take it all in stride and probably pretty much expect it from everyone. Frankly, Roger, I feel sorry for you. You must lead a lonely life."

"It's a lot less lonely when Claudia's in it," Roger mumbled. "But they've got her now."

"Who's 'they'?" Joe retorted.

"The same chaps who got me looking so unpresentable," Roger said. "You see, it all started with a bit of gold that I sort of found and . . . borrowed, shall we say."

"_Stole,_ is more like it," Joe said.

"Stole, yes," Roger conceded. "Only I really didn't know who it belonged to at the time. I thought it had been abandoned. Honest! And then someone else took it from me. The problem is . . ." He shifted, grimacing in pain and holding a hand to his ribs. "The problem is that the blokes I stole from didn't believe that someone stole it from me in turn. So they abducted Claudia and . . . well, you can see what they did to me."

"And let me guess," Joe interjected. "They want me to help them find their gold by making you tell me what you did with it."

"I'm afraid so," Roger nodded.

Joe stood, shaking his head and beginning to pace the floor in disbelief. "Roger, of all the . . . why did you give them my name, anyway?!"

Silence. "Desperation, I suppose. I took a chance that I still had one friend left in this world of double-crossers and cheaters."

"Let's get one thing straight, Roger," Joe immediately jumped in. "I'm not your friend. You saw to that last time. Now that you've got me mixed up in this mess I guess I'll have to see it through. But it's not for your sake, Roger. Ohh no. Now it's personal. Now it's for _my_ sake."

Roger nodded and smiled that cheeky, unruffled smile. "Of course. I wouldn't expect it any other way."

Peggy frowned, peering at him more closely. Maybe it was her imagination, but it almost looked like a flicker of a different emotion passing through his eyes. Sadness? Regret?

She shook her head. Neither were things she thought Roger would be capable of feeling. But then again, in her years of working with Joe, she had certainly learned that people could be surprising. And sometimes that wasn't always a bad thing.

She frowned as something else occurred to her. "Joe? Can I talk to you for a minute?"

Joe looked over in surprise. "Sure, Peg." He left Roger and walked with Peggy to the doorway of his office. "What is it?"

Peggy lowered her voice. "If he's not hurt too badly, the hospital will let him go. Where is he going to stay?"

Joe shoved his hands in his pockets. "In all honesty, he's probably expecting to stay here. And those jokers on his back probably expect him to be here."

"Exactly," Peggy nodded, worried.

"And I'd probably just get beat up if they came and he wasn't here," Joe scowled. "Then again, they might beat me up anyway."

"What are you going to do?" Peggy exclaimed.

"What I'd _like_ to do is toss him out on his ear," Joe growled. "That's just about what he deserves. But now that I'm so unfortunately involved in his latest catastrophe, I want to hear this story from his enemies' point of view. Who knows if Roger's given it to me straight. And he'll probably end up staying here, at least for tonight. Maybe tomorrow I can kick him into a hotel."

"Maybe," Peggy echoed with a bit of a smirk.

"Honest—that's the plan," Joe retorted.

"Mm hmm. But will you be able to stick with it?" Peggy smoothly returned.

"Oh, you just wait and see!" Joe declared. "I'll stick with it, alright. Last time I made the mistake of thinking that Roger wouldn't leave me high and dry. But he was doing it every time I turned around!"

Peggy nodded. "Not that I agree with what he did, but you _were_ promising to see that he met up with Inspector Dustin Rhodes," she remarked. "And I guess he wasn't at all willing to see that happen."

"Yeah, especially when Rhodes wasn't even Rhodes _or_ an inspector," Joe grumbled. "But Roger still double-crossed me even after I figured that one out."

"He probably thought you were going to turn him over to a real Scotland Yard inspector," Peggy said, tapping her lips with the eraser of a pencil. "I'm still not sure why you didn't."

"Sometimes I'm not, either," Joe came back.

The sound of the ambulance outside was a welcome interruption. Peggy hurried to greet the paramedics at the door while Joe walked back to Roger on the couch.

"I couldn't help but overhear," Roger said, blearily looking up at him. "I've wondered myself why you let Claudia and me go."

Joe shoved his hands in his pockets. "At the time, I figured the most important thing was just to get the money back where it belonged," he said. "Stealing a bunch of old money on its way to being burned isn't the crime of the century, especially when you pulled it off without anyone getting hurt. I was more sore about how you used me."

"I _am_ sorry about that," Roger mumbled. "I didn't mean for anyone to get hurt, including you. All I wanted was to get away from the people who double-crossed me after the robbery."

"Who really wouldn't have minded if _I'd_ gotten away, permanently," Joe said. "But truthfully, once I learned the whole story of what had happened . . . nevermind," he interrupted himself as the paramedics came into the office. They would talk about it later.

Maybe. It wasn't the sort of topic he was anxious to get into.

He ran a hand through his hair. Tonight he was fed up with cases and now another one had dropped right in his lap.

Or right on his doorstep, more accurately.

And he _really_ wasn't anxious to see where it was going to lead.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

Joe was right about Roger's injuries. Mostly bruised and scraped, he wasn't hurt seriously enough for the hospital to think that keeping him overnight was necessary—as long as someone looked after him. So of course, Roger returned with Joe to 17 Paseo Verde.

"Can't you tell me something about these people who have Claudia?" Joe said in exasperation as he drove home.

"Well . . . the top man isn't someone to be crossed," Roger said slowly. "Not at all. We don't know his name, but he's rather impossible to miss."

"And just how is anyone 'impossible to miss'?" Joe retorted.

"He's . . . rather heavy, you see," the very slight Roger said with a bit of a grin.

Joe sighed. "Okay. What else can you tell me about him?"

"He's quite cultured," Roger mused, staring out at the darkened sky. "He enjoys fine wine, fancy cheese, works of art, and classical music, to name a few of his interests. Oh, and gold. He's very big on gold."

"Of course." Joe looked and felt weary. "And you don't have any idea who ran off with his?"

"No idea whatsoever," Roger said. "You know, it was strange, though."

"What was?" Joe countered, wondering at the same time if he really wanted to know.

"Well, I didn't think anyone else was out where they were chasing me. It was this old, deserted bit of highway, like I told the police."

"And there was an old pumphouse there. I know," Joe nodded impatiently. Lieutenant Malcolm had gone out there with a team but had found nothing. They hadn't expected to; naturally the criminals had moved on.

"So, before I got to the pumphouse, I ran smack into this odd bloke wandering around on the hill. I called to him, apologizing for the collision, but he didn't say anything. And he didn't come after me, so I don't think he was one of them."

"You don't think the mysterious stranger is the one who took the gold, do you?" Joe frowned.

"He could have been coming back to check on things and make certain he hadn't been found out yet," Roger said. "As long as Claudia and I have the spotlight, he's safe."

"Yeah, I guess that could be true," Joe said. "Or he could have just been out for a walk and doesn't have anything to do with any of this."

"Also very possible," Roger nodded. "Especially since Los Angeles has quite a few unusual residents."

"Roger, I think _you're_ one of the most unusual residents Los Angeles has seen in years," Joe declared.

As he had expected, Roger just smiled that cheeky smile. "You're quite right, Joe."

Joe shook his head. "You seem almost proud of it."

"Always take pride in being unique. That's what my dear old dad said."

"But did your 'dear old dad' know _how_ you were going to be unique?" Joe retorted.

Roger fell silent. "I suppose you've got a point there."

Joe didn't offer anything else. The day had already seemed never-ending. Right now he just wanted to get home, put Roger to bed, and hope that possibly Roger's enemies would wait until morning to attack.

He frowned as he pulled into his usual parking space and noticed a police car nearby. Lieutenant Malcolm was leaning against the driver's door, waiting.

"What is it?" Roger asked.

"That's what we're going to find out," Joe said, getting out of the car and going over. "Art, what is it? Did your boys find something after all?"

"Not to do with the case." Art pushed away from the car and met him halfway.

Something about his somber manner sent a chill up Joe's spine. "What's going on, Art?" he demanded.

"The boys found something, alright," Art told him. The chill grew worse. "A homicide. Lew Wickersham."

Joe froze. He wasn't sure what horrible thing he had expected to hear. He only knew that it definitely hadn't been that.

"Joe?" Still weak and hurt, Roger was opening the passenger door and trying to ease himself out of the car. "What's wrong?"

Joe barely heard him. "How?" he finally managed to ask.

"Car wreck," Art said. "It crashed somewhere near that old shack Mr. Bard told us about. It definitely wasn't an accident; the brakes were gone."

"And Lew . . . Lew was in the car?" Joe stammered, still trying to wrap his mind around what he was being told.

He hadn't worked for Lew in years. He had never been a team player and finally he had just got fed up trying to work as part of such a huge team as the Intertect Detective Agency, with so much reliance on computers and technology instead of legwork and the human factor. But he and Lew had parted on good terms, even though some of the other Intertect employees hadn't felt the same. Joe and Lew had remained friends through the years, getting together whenever they could. Joe had wanted to drop in on him again, but hadn't had the chance with the heavy workload. And now . . . now he wouldn't be able to, ever again.

"Actually, he was found some distance away from the car," Art frowned, "collapsed in the grass."

Suddenly a bolt shot Joe through the heart. Remembering Roger, he whirled to look at the confused man. "This person you ran into," he barked. "What did he look like?!"

Roger rocked back, blinking in surprise. "Why, I really didn't get a very good look at him," he protested. "He was tall . . . I believe he was wearing glasses . . . and that's about it!"

Joe stormed over to him, his eyes flashing with outrage and pain. "It was Lew, wasn't it?! Maybe you could have helped him if you hadn't been so caught up in your own problems! It's always all about you. And now Lew's dead and you were the last person to see him alive!"

Worried, Art grabbed for Joe's arm. "Hey, easy, Joe," he said in concern. "He couldn't have known."

"He could have known the man was hurt, if he would've taken time to look!" Joe snarled, pulling away.

"He could have asked me for help," Roger finally stammered. "He didn't say anything!"

"He was probably too dazed from the crash," Joe snapped.

Roger shrank back. He had never seen Joe this upset. Even during the escapade over the money, Joe hadn't ever lost his temper. Perhaps that was one reason why Roger had felt he could keep pushing Joe's buttons.

"Does this mean you want me to go find a hotel after all?" he asked at last, his voice very small.

Joe gave him a hard look. "I wish you would," he admitted. "But no, you can still stay here. Mainly because I want to meet the people who gave you this going over."

Roger nodded, subdued. "Of course." He started to limp toward the front door, leaving Joe talking with Art.

Art looked to Joe with deep regret in his eyes. "I'm sorry, Joe."

Joe drew a shaking breath, trying to get himself under control. "You're absolutely sure it was him?" he asked, hoping against hope for a miracle.

"I've met him, Joe," Art said quietly. "He looked just like I remembered him. And he had all the proper identification. There's no mistake; it was Lew Wickersham."

Joe's shoulders slumped. ". . . Are there any persons of interest yet?"

"No one in specific," Art said. "It could have been almost anyone upset about one of Intertect's current or past cases."

"And I suppose every Intertect agent is up in arms ready to find out who," Joe said.

"A lot of them, anyway," Art said. "There were a few who didn't like Mr. Wickersham that much, but they didn't hate him enough to kill him."

Joe began to pace. Art studied him, recognizing the restlessness and what it signified. "You want to investigate yourself, don't you, Joe?"

Joe stopped and looked to him. "Lew was my boss for a long time, Art. We went through a lot together. And even after I left, we stayed friends. I can't rest easy knowing his murderer is out there running free."

"Intertect might resent you being involved," Art cautioned.

"They can resent it then," Joe shot back. "I'm involved."

"Joe, maybe you're too close to the case," Art sighed.

"And Intertect isn't?" Joe's hands were on his hips as he glared.

Art recognized that classic, defiant stance. He imagined Lew Wickersham had seen it many times.

"Alright," he relented. "You and Intertect are probably _all_ too close to this case. You should _all_ just let the police handle it. I know that my saying this is like talking to a brick wall. But I had to try."

"Okay, so you've tried." Joe started to turn away, then turned back. "I want to see where it happened."

"I know you do," Art nodded. "But Joe, right now you already have a prior commitment." He glanced to the door, which was ajar from Roger having decided to enter and wait inside.

Joe followed his gaze in exasperation. "Roger just _had_ to show up tonight of all nights," he grumbled.

"Stay here tonight, Joe," Art implored. "You can look at the scene of the crime tomorrow. And bring Roger along. Maybe he'll remember something else."

"Yeah, like maybe he saw Lew's crashed car," Joe muttered. He turned away. "Alright. I'll see you later, Art.

Art sighed. "Joe . . ."

Joe paused. "Yeah?"

"Don't mix Roger up with the murderer."

Joe stiffened, but nodded. "I know."

"There probably wasn't anything he could have done for Lew even if he had realized Lew was hurt," Art said.

"I know that too," Joe scowled. "They might have both been taken prisoner and beaten. And with Lew already hurt from the crash, he couldn't have stood that too." Suddenly he froze, a new and alarming thought coming to him.

"What is it?" Art asked in concern.

"Art, are you sure Lew died from injuries in the crash?" Joe demanded, whirling back to face him. "What if the people who are after Roger saw Lew and killed him because they thought he'd seen too much?"

Art frowned. "Well, we won't know anything until the full post-mortem," he said.

"But it _is_ a possibility," Joe prompted.

"Oh, I suppose it is," Art said. "But it's also highly possible that Wickersham was fatally injured in the crash, like the coroner decided at the scene."

Joe nodded, but wasn't convinced. "Let me know as soon as that post-mortem comes in," he said, again starting for the door.

"I will," Art promised. "But don't do anything reckless in the meantime."

Joe didn't bother to acknowledge that. "Goodnight, Art," he replied.

"Joe. Joe!" Art called in vain as Joe headed inside and shut the door after him.

Sighing, Art turned away, shaking his head. "One of his best friends dies and I tell him not to do anything reckless," he addressed nothing in particular. "What am I thinking?"

xxxx

Roger wasn't anywhere downstairs when Joe went inside. Figuring he had found his way upstairs to the apartment, Joe climbed the stairs and hoped that Roger had wandered into the guestroom instead of Joe's room.

To his relief, he found the guestroom door ajar. Climbing the last set of steps, he went to the doorway and looked in. Roger was lying on the bed, still fully clothed.

He opened one eye at Joe's approach. "Oh, hello, Joe," he greeted.

"You, uh, don't want the pajamas?" Joe returned. "There's some in the drawer, you know." He indicated the chest of drawers.

"I would like them, as a matter of fact," Roger said. "But I'm afraid I found it too complicated to get out of these clothes and retrieve them."

Joe sighed. Instead of just being obnoxiously lazy, Roger was probably right. He had quite a collection of painful bruises and bumps that would make getting undressed on his own rather difficult for the time being. Hopefully just for tonight.

"Alright," he relented, grudgingly. "I'll help you get changed, if you want. But I'm not going to be your personal valet. Just as soon as you're well enough to dress yourself, you're going to."

"Oh, of course," Roger said, slowly easing himself up. "I wouldn't have it any other way."

The next few minutes were spent in silence. Joe's thoughts were soon wandering, even as he helped Roger out of the gray suit and into the light-blue pajamas. He was somewhat surprised when the next voice he heard was Roger's.

"I _am_ sorry about your chum, Joe. I honestly had no idea that man was hurt. I really couldn't see him that well in the dark."

"Would it have made any difference if you _had_ noticed?" Joe couldn't refrain from replying, even though he was definitely surprised that the incident had made enough of an impression that Roger would bring it up again.

Roger fell silent once more. "I don't know," he had to admit. "I had my own problems, but it wasn't just me I was worried about."

"Claudia?" Joe said derisively. "You told me she could take care of herself."

"Ah, and usually she can," Roger said. "We just haven't had much luck against this bloke."

"So you were running away, but you were worried about Claudia," Joe said, his voice dripping sarcasm. "And I suppose you were going to worry about her all the way to wherever you were going to hide out."

Roger turned to look at him. "I wasn't going to 'hide out'!" he insisted. "I was going for help. Actually, Joe, I was hoping to get to you."

"And that's why you said my name when you were being worked over," Joe said. "You figured they'd bring you to me so you could still make your plea for help."

"It might have been something like that, I suppose," Roger confessed.

Joe grabbed for the pajama top and held it down so Roger could slide his arms through the sleeves. "And just how much more mileage did you figure you could get out of me after last time?" he demanded.

"Frankly, I wasn't sure I could get any," Roger said. "I know I used you at every turn, Joe, but that's how I stay alive."

"And that's why I'm the only person you could turn to, then and now," Joe said flatly. "No one else would have put up with you at all. And I shouldn't have. I wouldn't be now, if you hadn't involved me and put me in danger."

"Yes, I know." Now safely in the pajamas, Roger eased himself back into the bed. "But thank you anyway."

Joe watched him, unmoved. "We'll talk more tomorrow," he vowed.

"I plan on it," Roger smiled.

"We're going out to where Lew was killed and see if you can remember anything else about when you saw him."

The smile disappeared. "Really, Joe, I told you all I can."

"We'll see." Joe headed for the door.

"Joe?"

At the sound of Roger's voice, Joe paused. "What is it, Roger?"

"You said it was difficult to stay angry at me. Do you still feel that way?"

Joe had to think about that one. "Right now, Roger, it's a heck of a lot easier." He stepped into the hall. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight then, Joe."

Joe couldn't bring himself to feel too badly, even hearing the melancholy tone to Roger's voice. Roger lived by double-crossing and abandoning anyone who stood in the way of his plans, and Joe had come to accept that. But he was finding it hard to forgive Roger just leaving Lew out to die. Roger had even admitted that he didn't know if he would have helped had he known Lew was hurt.

Crossing to his room, Joe took out his gun and lay down on the bed to wait for the possible break-in. He knew he wasn't going to get any sleep tonight.

Unbidden to his mind came the memory of his last conversation with Lew as an agent for Intertect. He had gone to lay his resignation on Lew's desk. And even though he had quit before and come back, this time it had been for good and they both knew it.

Not that Lew hadn't still tried to convince him to reconsider.

"_Joe, are you sure you want to do this?"_ he had asked as he read through the letter of resignation.

"_I'm sure, Lew," _Joe had replied. _"We both knew this day was coming sooner or later. I'm not a team player or a computer geek. I need to be out on my own, doing things my way."_

"_I suppose I kept hoping it would be an indefinite 'later'."_ Lew had adjusted his glasses, setting the sheet of paper back on the desk. _"You know you're my best agent."_

"_There's others who are pretty good too. You'll make out."_ But Joe had hesitated instead of leaving. Lew was upset to lose a good agent, of course, but what bothered both of them the most was simply having to say Goodbye.

"_Joe . . . if it doesn't work out, you'll consider coming back, won't you?"_

Joe still remembered the sad, regretful look in Lew's eyes. _"Maybe,"_ he had said, slowly.

"_You've always just needed some time to cool off before."_ Lew had stood, restless, not content to take this sitting down.

"_That was then."_ Joe had habitually buttoned his blazer, wondering what it was going to be like to not come here every day . . . to not deal with the computers every day . . . to not see Lew every day.

"_Alright, Joe. I hope it works out for you."_ Lew had held out a hand. _"But there's no need for us to be strangers. Keep in touch."_

Joe had smiled, firmly shaking Lew's hand. _"You can count on that."_

And they had stayed in touch, all through the years. But it was difficult for Joe to concentrate on that fact. Instead he kept playing Peggy's voice in his mind from two days earlier.

"_Joe, what about Lew Wickersham? I told you he called two days ago. You haven't called him back yet."_

Joe had been sitting at his desk, surrounded by folders, newspaper clippings, and the ransom notes from the fake kidnapping. _"I know, Peggy,"_ he had replied, highly occupied. _"I'll call him back when I'm done with this."_

And that hadn't been soon enough.

Joe slumped back into the pillows, staring sadly across the room. "I'm sorry, Lew," he whispered. "I was too late. I'm so sorry."

xxxx

Roger's enemies had relocated to the boss's Los Angeles home, a sprawling mansion in Beverly Hills with a state-of-the-art security system. The large man had settled in at his desk in the study, reading through an advance copy of the early-morning paper.

"The man's death has made the front page, I see," he mused. "But you're sure there's no way to connect it with us?" He looked up sharply at one of his henchmen, his blue eyes flashing with danger if he didn't like the answer.

"There's no way, Boss," the lackey insisted. "It was a clean break and everyone wore gloves."

"Yes, but he didn't die from the crash," was the annoyed retort. "You said you had to chase him down and crack him over the head. If he didn't die immediately, he might have said something to the police!"

"He didn't!" the henchman cried. "We checked him out once he was down. No pulse, no nothin'!"

"Very well. I will accept that, Benji." The newspaper was set down. "And there was no trace of the gold?"

"No, Boss. If Bard really doesn't have it and doesn't know what Wickersham did with it, maybe Wickersham passed it off to someone else instead of Bard."

"Such as?" A deep frown filled the man's features. "That agency he ran is one of the largest in California. And it's _the _largest that's upright."

"I don't think he'd give it to anyone in the agency, Boss." Benji's eyes gleamed. "But guess what?"

"You know how guessing games bore me, Benji. Just tell me what you're thinking."

"Sorry, Boss. You know that detective's office where we dumped Bard off? Mannix?" Benji looked excited. "He used to work for that agency. He and Wickersham were close."

"Really now?" Benji's boss looked interested. "So you think Mr. Wickersham just might have passed the gold on to him?"

"It's possible, isn't it?" Benji replied.

"Yes," the large man smiled. "Yes, it's possible, indeed. It certainly makes another reason why we should visit Mr. Mannix right away." He started to rise. "Tell Donald to bring the car around."

"Right, Boss." Benji quickly disappeared from the room.

His boss watched his departure with a smile of entertainment and anticipation. Yes, they would be on the trail of the missing gold again soon enough. And Mannix would pay, along with Roger Bard and dear Claudia. She was amusing to have around, but after all, all good things had to come to an end sometime. And in this case, _sometime_ would be once the gold was back where it belonged.

xxxx

The motel on the corner of Henning and Elm was generally a quiet place without much business. Oftentimes, all but one or two of the rooms would be empty.

That was the case tonight, and the night clerk was bored out of his mind. He yawned, crossing his arms on the register and preparing to slump down on top of it. They really didn't pay him enough for the amount of sitting around with nothing to do that happened every day.

"Hello? Excuse me?"

The little man looked up with a start. A tall man had approached the desk without him even realizing.

"Oh! Yes, Sir." The clerk straightened up, swiveling the register around for the newcomer to see. "Do you want a room, Sir?"

"Yes. Yes, I do." The tall man swayed, and he grabbed the edge of the desk to steady himself. Now the blood running down his forehead was visible.

The clerk gasped. "Sir, what happened to you?! Do you need a doctor? You're bleeding!"

"What?" The tall man reached up, honestly looking confused until he touched the blood. "Oh. I didn't even know. But I'm alright, really. At least, I think I am. . . ." He took off his glasses, rubbing at his eyes.

"Sir, why don't I call a doctor?" the clerk implored. "You're hurt. And by your own admission, you weren't even aware of it!"

"No! No, please, I just need to rest." The tall man fumbled in his pocket. "I should have my wallet in here somewhere."

"Is there anyone I can call?" the clerk worried. "A family member? A friend? What's your name?"

"My . . ." The tall man paused, looking far away and confused. Finding his wallet, he snapped back to the present and shakily opened it. "There," he said, reading over his driver's license and then holding it out to the clerk. "This is my name here. You see it? It says Jason Faulk."

"Oh," the clerk said, peering at it. "Yes, it does. But Mr. Faulk, I really think you need . . ."

He never finished his sentence. Instead, with a horrified gasp, he watched Jason Faulk collapse to the floor.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

It wasn't at all a surprise when Joe heard a knock at the door downstairs. Keeping his gun firmly in hand, he climbed down from the bed, walked through the apartment and down the stairs, and to the front door.

The man standing before him was exactly as Roger had described. "Good evening, Mr. Mannix," he purred. "My name is Barstow. Paul Raymond Barstow. I believe we have a mutual acquaintance?"

"If that mutual acquaintance is Roger Bard, then yes," Joe said. Opening the door farther, he continued, "Won't you come in?"

"Thank you." Barstow walked in with a calm, confident air, followed by two lackeys.

Joe eyed them all suspiciously as he shut the door. "I'm assuming these two grunts are the ones who beat Roger to a pulp tonight."

"Well, I wouldn't put it so crudely, Mr. Mannix, but they did strive to teach Roger a lesson. He was being a very naughty boy."

"You mean because he took your gold," Joe supplied.

"Oh, so he's told you about the gold," Barstow smiled.

"Yeah. And he also told me he doesn't know where it is." Joe kept the gun snug in his hand, not about to let down his guard.

"Surely you don't believe him, do you?" Barstow said dryly. He went and sat in Peggy's chair, uninvited.

"Actually, in this case, Barstow, I do," Joe said.

"Hmm." Barstow leaned back, lacing his fingers on his chest as he smiled in a thoughtful, disconcerting way. "Then perhaps it's because you know who actually has the gold. The poor man who was killed tonight?"

Joe's eyes flashed. "What do you know about the man who was killed?!" he spat.

"My, my. It would seem I've hit a nerve." Barstow sat up straight, his eyes suddenly dangerous. "We know Llewellyn Wickersham had the gold. He passed it on to someone before his death. Now, who was it?! If not Mr. Bard, it must have been you!"

Joe rocked back, stunned speechless. "Lew, with gold? You must be out of your tree! And he doesn't even know Roger!"

One of the thugs started to pull on brass knuckles. Barstow sighed, dramatically shaking his head.

"Mr. Mannix, if you refuse to cooperate with us, I'm afraid the boys will have to give you the same treatment they gave Mr. Bard."

"And what about the treatment they gave Lew?" Joe snarled. "Are your boys the ones who killed him?!"

The only response was a vicious attack to his midsection, in spite of his hold on the gun. He doubled over in pain as the thug wrenched the weapon from his hand, but then fought to recover and delivered a harsh punch. When the second man came at him, he kicked that thug's legs out from under him and sent him to the floor, karate-chopping the back of his neck as he went down.

Barstow began to slowly, pointedly clap. "Bravo, Mr. Mannix, bravo! A man like you would be worth his weight in gold, shall we say. If you would turn it over to me, I would be more than willing to offer you a job as my right-hand man."

"Even if I knew where the gold was, I wouldn't turn it over to you _or _work for you," Joe snapped. "And what makes you think Lew ever had it?"

"He was seen and identified carrying it off," Barstow said. "Then he disappeared. By the time my men knew where he was and went to speak with him about it, he had hidden it somewhere and was professing no knowledge of its existence or whereabouts."

"And after trying and failing to break him, you decided the only thing left was to kill him before he could tell the police," Joe said angrily.

"I didn't say that, Mr. Mannix," Barstow retorted. "I strongly dislike when anyone attempts to put words in my mouth!"

"If it wasn't your boys, then who was it?" Joe demanded.

Barstow shrugged, unconcerned. "The man had many enemies, I believe. It comes with the territory. Perhaps it was even the work of a rival detective agency. I'm sure you remember the Waterbury scandal, when an outrageously large detective agency much like Intertect was deliberately causing small, independent detectives to lose their licenses and killing anyone who got too close to the truth."

"Lew took a lot of heat from that," Joe admitted. "The idiots at Waterbury damaged Intertect's reputation. People were too scared to go to a big agency, thinking it would be crooked like Waterbury.

"But Waterbury is out of business and Intertect has been getting back on top. And I don't think Waterbury or any other big agency had anything to do with Lew's death."

"Think what you will," Barstow said smoothly.

Joe looked to the first thug, who had recovered from the punch and was standing by, waiting for a signal from his boss. Staying on guard, Joe looked back to Barstow. "If Lew did have the gold and then didn't, he probably turned it over to the police," he said.

"Or he gave it to someone he trusted," Barstow said. "You, for one." He nodded to his thug.

The man lunged, punching at Joe. Having been prepared for the assault, Joe kicked out and punched back, hitting his mark.

But the second man was finally recovering from the stunning blow Joe had dealt him. Getting up, he attacked Joe from behind, clobbering him over the head with his own gun—which the thug had taken from his partner. Joe sank to the floor, the fight gone out of him.

Barstow stood, walking out from the desk. "This time, don't keep attacking him," he ordered. "We shall take our leave of Mr. Mannix for now and see if he's any less defiant the next time we meet."

The thugs backed away and obediently followed Barstow to the door, the second one tossing the gun on the floor near Joe. "But he already suspects us of knocking off Wickersham," the first one hissed. "He'll never cooperate with the guys who killed his friend!"

"He may, Benji, he may. He just needs the proper motivation. We'll find out who else is close to him. And let's not forget dear Claudia. If Mr. Bard possibly cares about her, she is also leverage we must make use of." Barstow opened the door and stepped into the night. Benji and the other thug quickly followed.

It was when they were gone that Roger limped down the stairs and over to Joe's unconscious body. He had been awakened by the commotion but had stayed out of sight, not wanting to be attacked again. Now, painfully, he eased himself down and gripped Joe's shoulder. "Joe!" he called. "Joe, wake up!"

There was no response. Frowning, Roger reached up to the desk to grab the phone.

At the same moment, the front door suddenly flew open and Peggy rushed in. "Joe!" she cried in horror. "Roger, what happened?!"

"He had the visit he was expecting," Roger said as he dialed 911. "And I expect we'll be going back to the hospital. By the way, what are you doing still up?"

"Oh, I couldn't sleep," Peggy said. Hurrying to the water cooler, she dampened a cloth and rushed back to Joe's side. She knelt down, gently brushing it over his face.

"A premonition of trouble, eh?" Roger said. But just then the dispatcher came on the line and Roger turned his attention to her, quickly requesting an ambulance. When the matter was settled and the address given, Roger hung up and leaned back against the desk, watching Peggy try to revive Joe.

"When I feel like there's trouble, I'm usually right," Peggy said, upset. "How bad did they hurt him?!"

"I really don't know, Mrs. Fair," Roger replied. "I wasn't here at the time."

"Of course," Peggy muttered, unable to keep from sounding bitter. She supposed she couldn't really blame him for staying away, in his state. But she doubted he would have lifted a finger to help even if he hadn't already been hurt.

Finally Joe began to stir. He groaned, starting and moving his hand across the floor.

Relieved, Peggy tried to give him some space. "Lay still, Joe," she pleaded. "Don't move until the paramedics can examine you."

"Paramedics?" Joe mumbled. "I don't need paramedics."

"We're going to make sure of that," Peggy said firmly.

Not listening, Joe tried to pull himself into a sitting position. He grimaced, holding a hand to the back of his head as he slumped against the desk. He turned to look at Roger, blearily.

"Hello, Joe," Roger greeted.

Joe scowled. "Where were you when those goons were clobbering me?"

"Upstairs, mostly," Roger said. "But I was right ready to come down as soon as they left."

"I'll bet," Joe said. "You know, for someone who's worried about his girlfriend, you sure didn't make a move to do anything."

"Claudia is quite safe for now," Roger said. "But she won't be if we can't soon find either the gold or a way to defeat the people who have her!"

Hearing the sirens in the distance, Joe sighed and stared up at the ceiling. "What a night. First you come back into my life. Then Art tells me Lew Wickersham was murdered." Peggy gasped. "Now your enemies attack me and they tell me Lew supposedly had your gold before he was killed."

"Joe, what happened to Lew?" Peggy cried in distress.

"Someone cut the brakes on his car," Joe said bitterly. "Roger actually ran into him stumbling around hurt, but he just went past. Roger must have been the last person to see him alive."

Roger averted his gaze, actually looking a bit guilty.

"So was Lew mixed up in this case?" Peggy worried. "Did _they_ kill him?"

"That's what I'm afraid of," Joe said.

Peggy looked at him sadly. "Oh Joe, I'm so sorry."

Joe sighed. "Everyone's sorry, even Roger. But that doesn't change anything. Lew is still dead." And, Joe vowed, whether Barstow's thugs or someone else had done it, he would find out who and bring them to justice.

Maybe Lew hadn't called the other day just hoping to get together. Maybe he had wanted to talk with Joe about this mysterious gold, if he really _had_ had it.

To Joe it seemed unlikely. Lew wasn't the type to go to anyone with his problems. But if he had been desperate and had wanted the help of someone not from Intertect who wouldn't be as likely to be suspected by his enemies, it was conceivable that he would go to Joe.

And whether or not that had been the reason, Joe felt sick for not having taken the time to return that call.

Catching the murderers was the only thing he could do for Lew now.

xxxx

To Joe's satisfaction and Peggy's relief, the doctor determined that he wasn't hurt too badly and could go home. Roger, who hadn't wanted to stay at the apartment alone and had come along, was glad as well. He certainly didn't want to stay in the hospital for the night.

"See, Peg, I told you there was no need to worry," Joe said as he limped out of the examination room, adjusting his tie.

"Well, it's better safe than sorry," Peggy said firmly. "I'll drive you and Roger back home and . . ." She trailed off, seeing that Joe had stopped walking and was staring into a room. "Joe?"

Roger also stopped. He turned, blinking in confusion. "Come on, Joe," he urged. "I'm sure that patient doesn't want to be a sideshow attraction."

Joe wasn't listening to either of them. "It can't be," he breathed in shocked disbelief. "It _can't, _but . . ." He ran into the room and over to the man resting on the bed. "Lew?! Lew, what happened?! Art told me you were dead!"

The man jumped an alarmed mile. "Who are you?!" he demanded, panicked as he grabbed his glasses off the nightstand. "I don't know you; I've never seen you before in my life! And my name isn't Lew!"

Joe rocked back as though he had been slapped. He had really known it was too good to be true, but he had still desperately hoped against all odds.

"I'm sorry," he stammered. "You look just like a friend of mine who was killed tonight. I thought . . ."

The man started. "I'm sorry," he said. "My name is Jason Faulk. And you are . . . ?"

"Joe Mannix." Joe held out a hand to shake, still reeling from the similarities between the two men.

Jason took Joe's hand, grasping it in a firm shake. "I wasn't very congenial when you came in," he said regretfully. "Again, I'm sorry. It's been a strange night for me. I collapsed in the lobby of a hotel and was brought here. I woke up being told I had a mild concussion. They want to keep me for overnight observation."

Joe half-smirked. "You have my sympathy, Mr. Faulk. And there's no need to apologize; I must have sounded like a madman, barging in here raving about Lew."

"It was a shock," Jason admitted. "But I must have given you one too. You say I look like your friend?"

"Like a twin brother," Joe nodded.

"How strange," Jason mused. "Maybe it's true what they say in India, about everyone having seven doubles."

Joe winced. "Just one double is more than enough.

"Well, I'd better leave you now to get some proper rest. Thank you for your understanding, Mr. Faulk."

"Of course," Jason nodded. He waited until Joe was out of the room. Then he laid back on the bed, troubled as he gazed up at the ceiling.

Peggy and Roger were both standing outside the room in bewilderment when Joe came back out. "Joe?" Peggy asked. "What was that all about?"

"Mistaken identity, apparently," Joe frowned. "But I'm telling you, Peggy, it's uncanny! You met Lew before; doesn't this Jason Faulk look just like him?"

"There certainly is a strong resemblance," Peggy said slowly.

"It's just a coincidence," Roger said. "They do happen. Why, one time here in Los Angeles I ran across a chap who looked incredibly like me. Well, except for the long scar running down the left side of his face, of course. . . ."

"This guy doesn't have a long scar," Joe interrupted. "He looks _exactly_ like Lew. And I find that very weird.

"It's also weird that he's hurt, come to think of it," he added as they headed down the hall once more. "What are the odds of that? First Lew is killed. Now his coincidental double collapses in a hotel with a concussion—which he didn't tell me how he acquired."

"Maybe Barstow and his men mistook Jason for Lew and went after him first," Peggy suggested.

"That's what I intend to find out," Joe vowed.

As they reached the nurse's station, he stopped to lean against the desk. "Excuse me," he greeted the nurse. "Could you tell me something about the patient in room 301? Jason Faulk. He says he was brought in tonight with a concussion."

The nurse blinked in surprise. "Yes, Sir, that's right," she nodded. "What do you want to know?"

Joe dug in his pocket for his license and held it out for her. "How did he get hurt?"

The nurse frowned. "You know, that's a curious thing," she admitted. "He didn't seem to remember. The doctor wasn't that concerned; he said that people often forget the events leading up to a traumatic head injury."

"So all he remembered was going to the hotel and then waking up here?" Joe frowned.

"That's all that he could seem to remember about tonight," the nurse confirmed. "Why?"

"I don't know," Joe said, sounding far away. "But thanks."

He waited to speak again until they were all outside. "Peggy, before we go home, would you mind dropping by the police station?"

Peggy stopped and looked to him in surprise. "Joe, you need to rest," she protested. "Can't it wait?"

"No," Joe retorted. "It can't."

Peggy started to dig in her purse for her car keys. "If we're going to make a detour like that, I think I have a right to know why."

"So do I," Roger chimed in. "I'm rather knackered from all the excitement tonight."

"It won't take long," Joe promised. "I just want to see Lew's body."

Peggy regarded him sadly. "Oh Joe."

"Look, I didn't see him at all after Art said he was dead. And now I run across someone who looks just like him! It's not weird or illogical to want to see his body after that, is it?"

Peggy sighed. "Of course not." Locating her keys, she inserted one into the lock and turned it.

Roger looked at Joe with a mixture of fascination and curiosity. "You're not thinking that perhaps a mistake was made somewhere with the identification are you, Joe?" Pulling open the door to the backseat, he started to get in.

"I don't see how there could have been," Joe replied, easing himself into the front passenger side. "Art found Lew's identification on the body. And I didn't see any recognition in Mr. Faulk's eyes. He couldn't be Lew playing a part for some reason. But just humor me, will you, Peg?"

Peggy sighed as she entered the driver's side. But then she smiled in resignation and nodded. "If you promise not to be there long."

"Scout's honor," Joe asserted.

xxxx

Art wasn't much more thrilled with Joe's decision than Peggy and Roger were, particularly after hearing of the assault. But, also deciding to humor him, he led Joe to the morgue and told the pathologist to show the body.

Joe felt a chill run up his spine as the sheet was pulled back. "Lew," he whispered. The man on the slab was so silent, so cold, his skin pale and filled with death. The wound on his forehead made Joe both cringe and boil. To think that someone had tampered with Lew's car to cause this!

Lew certainly wasn't the first friend Joe had seen dead. And almost assuredly he wouldn't be the last. But it never got easier. And Joe had been much closer to Lew than he had been to most of the other friends he had seen laid to rest.

His heart twisted. He felt sick.

When Joe turned away slightly, unable to stand the sight any longer, Art nodded to the pathologist with a quiet, "That's enough." The sheet was pulled back over the head and the body wheeled into the freezer compartment.

Joe walked out of the room with his hands in his pockets, deep in thought. Frowning, Art trailed after him. "What are you thinking, Joe?"

"I'm thinking about the guy I told you about, Art—the one in the hospital who looks just like Lew." Joe stopped walking and turned to face the police lieutenant. "Don't you think that's a really weird coincidence? Lew is killed and his look-alike is hurt the same night?"

"Weird coincidences happen. But I'll admit this one is a shocker. You say he gave his name as Jason Faulk?"

"Yeah." Joe peered at Art. "What do you know about him?"

"Nothing, really," Art replied. "He's a businessman of sorts, I think. Financier or something."

Joe nodded, looking thoughtful.

Art recognized that look. "Don't tell me. You're going to become an expert on all things Jason Faulk."

"Wouldn't you want to?" Joe countered. "I just don't buy that this is a coincidence, Art. There has to be a connection!"

Art sighed, looking tired. "I'll admit that you have this uncanny knack for recognizing when there's a connection. But it's just possible that this time there isn't."

"I'm going to investigate until I'm satisfied anyway," Joe replied. "And tomorrow I'm going to have to do something I don't really want to do—go to Intertect and ask around."

Art winced. "They won't be very receptive there, Joe. They resent any outside force looking into Wickersham's death, including the police. And considering you were an agent who quit . . ."

"I know, I know," Joe interrupted. "I haven't been forgiven for bugging out. But I'm going there anyway. And I think I'll also drop by Jason Faulk's place of business, as soon as I find out what and where it is."

"Now how did I know you were going to say that?" Art said wearily.

"Experience, Art, experience," Joe smiled. "You're coming to know me better all the time. I'll see you later. Thanks for letting me have a look." He strode off before Art could reply, his smile fading as he thought again about the lifeless body on the slab.

Lew wasn't supposed to be lying there dead. It was an especially chilling sight after having just come from seeing Jason Faulk alive and relatively well.

Joe clenched a fist at his side. He knew, had an instinct, that there was a connection between the crimes tonight. And no matter what it took, he was going to find out what.

xxxx

At the hospital, Jason was still awake, staring up at the ceiling.

Why did the intrusion into his room bother him so much? That character Mannix hadn't meant any harm. Really, he had just been grieving over his lost friend and for a split-second had believed the impossible. Jason could certainly understand that.

Perhaps it was the idea of losing a friend that bothered him. Mannix had been so shaken, and then so despondent, when he had learned that Jason was not whom he had hoped and longed for. Jason would feel likewise, to lose a friend and then discover a living doppelganger that same night. It would be a tremendous shock and a blow.

He sighed, rolling onto his side. Maybe he was also unsettled because it was making him think more about what else had happened tonight. It was highly disturbing to think that someone who looked just like him had died. And he himself had been hurt and could have died too.

It also bothered him that he honestly couldn't remember what had happened to him. He barely remembered stumbling into that hotel and collapsing on the floor. Who had assaulted him and why? It couldn't have been a mugging; his identification and money and credit cards were all intact. But what other reason could there have been?

He frowned, suddenly remembering something. _The gold._ Of course; he must have been attacked over the gold. And what was he going to do with it, come to think of it? It wouldn't always be safe where he had hidden it. He couldn't even tell the police about it. It was far more than what a private citizen was allowed to have. But if he could just get it out of the country, he would be safe.

He paused. Was he planning to keep it or sell it? Either way, it really wasn't his to do either thing with. He _should_ tell the police, really. But then he would have to tell that he had stolen it from someone, which he really didn't want to do.

Why was he conflicted over a simple matter like the gold's future, anyway? He had done far worse things in building his financial empire than stealing a hunk of gold. But now the thought of doing anything with the gold other than turning it over to the police was really bothering him.

"An attack of conscience all of a sudden, after all these years?" he muttered derisively.

Maybe that was what the assault and Mannix's visit tonight had done—awakened him to the very real fact that he could have died tonight, and with quite the unsettling lengthy list of nasty deeds. Maybe he wanted to make something right, even turn over a new leaf.

But he laughed to himself. He, Jason Faulk, go straight? That would never happen. Not even after surviving a near-death experience.

He sat up on the bed. He didn't intend to keep staying here, either. He was going to go home. He had a lot of work to do.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

Joe was on Intertect's doorstep almost before the crack of dawn. When the security guard unlocked the front doors, he stared in amazement. "Joe?" But then he sighed, shaking his head. "I wish it hadn't taken this to get you back here."

Joe gave him a sad smile. "You'd know I wouldn't stay away, right, Harry?"

"Of course," Harry nodded. He stepped back, allowing Joe to walk in. "I'm glad to see you, but I'm afraid a lot of the agents won't be."

"Well, maybe I can get in and out of here before most of them come, if you can help me," Joe replied.

"I'll do what I can," Harry said. "What do you wanna know?"

Joe slipped a hand in his pocket. "Do you know what case there might have been that could have got someone so mad they decided to kill Lew?"

"Oh man." Harry sighed. "I really don't know, Joe. It could've been almost anything."

"Think, Harry," Joe pressed. "Maybe someone came here in a huff?"

"No," Harry said slowly. "But hey! I remember Mr. Wickersham going out in a huff. It was yesterday morning and I'd just let him in a few minutes earlier. Then he came rushing back downstairs, looking madder than . . . well, madder than I'd ever seen him before."

Joe perked up. "Did he say why he was mad?"

"I asked him what was wrong and where he was going, and he said something about going to give Mr. Faulk a piece of his mind."

Joe nearly started out of _his_ mind. "Mr. Faulk?!" he cried. "Jason Faulk?"

"I think so. Boy, was he steaming. He said something about Mr. Faulk deliberately trying to set him up as the patsy for something and he wasn't going to stand for it."

Joe stared at Harry in disbelief. "You're sure, Harry? He really said _that?_"

"He really did!" Harry insisted. "I don't know what crime it was or anything, but just saying Mr. Faulk was doing that is some pretty heavy stuff."

"It sure is," Joe said. "Do you think there'd be anything in Lew's office about this?"

"I don't think so," Harry replied. "The police were up there last night going through everything."

"The police don't always find everything," Joe insisted. "Especially if it's deliberately kept hidden. Would you mind letting me go up there and take a look?"

"I wouldn't mind, Joe. The elevators are running; go on up. But don't blame me if you run into some unhappy agents up there!" Harry cautioned.

Joe gave him a crooked smile. "I won't, Harry. Thanks." Slapping him lightly on the arm, Joe hurried past and to the elevator.

His thoughts were whirling as he journeyed upward. It was sadly nostalgic to be back, remembering how it had used to be—coming to work each morning, seeing Lew, trading barbs with the computer operators—and how it never would be again.

Lew had put so much of his heart and soul into this place, had thoroughly believed in it and its ability to succeed. And Joe knew it never would have succeeded without him. Now that he was gone, would the agents be able to keep it afloat?

Joe hoped so. Even though it wasn't his method of private-eyeing, it was important to him because it had been important to Lew. He wanted to see it continue to endure.

And what of this fight with Jason Faulk? Joe was reeling from that information, too. The guy had seemed so nice in the hospital last night. But Joe sadly knew how appearances could be deceiving. He believed Lew more than some guy he had only met once. If Lew had been convinced that Faulk had tried to frame him for something, it was most likely true.

The elevator stopped and Joe hastened out, going up the dimly lit corridor toward Lew's office. Thankfully, the area seemed to be vacant for the time being. Perhaps it wouldn't be by the time Joe was ready to leave, but he would deal with that if or when it happened.

He knew of at least a couple of places in Lew's office where something might be concealed so as not to be discovered until Lew wished it. Perhaps he had worried that Faulk would even break in there and find the information against him if it was out in the open. They looked so much alike, Faulk could have even deliberately decided to pretend to be Lew at some point.

Slipping into Lew's office, Joe shut and locked the door behind him and moved quickly and carefully through the room. He need only check for the secret places, since the police had been over everything else.

It was in the secret panel in the desk that Joe found it—a sealed envelope inscribed _To be opened in the event of my death._ A shudder went up Joe's spine as he broke the seal and removed several sheets of paper. The top sheet was separate from the others. And, Joe saw with a sinking notation, it was a letter to him.

_Joe—_

_I wanted to tell you about this in person, but since we're both so busy these days, that time might not come for a while. And I don't know how much time I have. Knowing you, you'll find this even if I conceal it in the office._

_For the last several weeks I've been gathering evidence of smuggling, theft, and fraudulent actions against Jason Faulk. He owns a large financial company in the city. He also, curiously and strangely enough, looks exactly like me. I don't find this very flattering._

_He's already started using our resemblance to his advantage, by sneaking in here sometimes pretending to be me. He's managed to destroy my evidence more than once—or at least, he thinks he has. He doesn't know about this copy._

_I know you'll know what to do with this._

_Lew_

Joe quickly went over the other sheets, chilled by the realization that Lew was, in effect, speaking to him from the grave. He had collected copies of telephone records, invoices, and notations on Faulk's writing pads that all added up to show that Faulk had been heavily involved in everything Lew had suspected him of. Wharf 33 seemed to be the code associated with the pick-up of smuggled items; legitimate shipments were always at other locations. The last sheet mentioned it again, but in a different, cruel way. It showed a practice attempt to make a fake invoice of Lew purchasing illegal gold.

Furious, Joe shoved the papers back in the envelope and the envelope into his coat pocket. He was going to take these to his office and have them locked in the safe. Then he was going to confront Jason Faulk. Maybe it was even Faulk and not Barstow who was responsible for Lew's death! Lew had seen him only hours before the murder.

He opened the door, barely managing to keep his emotions in check enough to not fling it open in fury. Nevertheless, several newly arriving agents looked up with a start. Two glowered to see Joe emerging from their leader's office. The rest ignored him altogether.

Joe was too angry to do anything more than nod to the glaring agents as he strode to the elevator. He hoped that they would leave it at that.

Instead, one of them called to him. "What are you doing here, Mannix?"

"Just because I don't work here any more doesn't mean Lew wasn't still my friend," Joe retorted. "I want to find out who killed him as much as you guys do."

"That's our charge now," the agent replied. "Not yours."

"How about we share and share alike?" Joe suggested.

"Nothing doing," the agent growled.

Joe shrugged. "It's your choice."

The agents didn't reply and Joe got into the elevator without further response. Lew had _wanted_ Joe's help in handling this. The death letter was addressed to Joe, not any current Intertect agents. But Joe couldn't reveal anything about that. Not yet. Maybe Lew had even suspected someone in Intertect of being involved.

Joe just hoped Jason Faulk wouldn't be hard to track down. He was probably already gone from the hospital, but Joe would call and check with the nurse to be sure. If not there, he must be either at home or his company.

One way or another, Joe would find him.

It made his blood boil all over again when he thought of how kind Faulk had seemed last night. Obviously it had been an act. And he was an incredible actor; the mention of Lew hadn't fazed him. He had even denied knowing anyone named Lew. He was distancing himself from Lew as much as possible to make himself look innocent.

But Joe would drag the truth out of him anyway, even if he had to rough him up to do it.

Anyone and everyone connected with Lew's death would pay.

xxxx

Peggy sighed as she quietly typed and occasionally went to the file cabinets for a folder. It had been a long night and was shaping up to be a day every bit as long or longer.

Someone needed to look after Roger while Joe was out investigating, so despite Peggy's miniscule amount of sleep, she had volunteered. Joe hadn't wanted her to do it, knowing she needed to rest, but he hadn't wanted to leave Roger alone at the apartment, either. So he had reluctantly accepted, on the condition that Peggy would promise to sleep if she thought she could. She had been perfectly willing.

She had tried to nap on the couch for a while, but in vain. Too many things were bouncing around in her mind. Frustrated, she had got up to do some work, hoping it would make her sleepy enough for a rest. And now Roger had come downstairs and claimed the couch, apparently wanting company.

"You know, you are quite the efficient secretary," he commented appreciatively.

"That's how Mr. Mannix likes it," Peggy replied, not showing appreciation in return but secretly pleased by the compliment.

"I wish I'd had someone like you when I was running Bard Enterprises," Roger mused.

"There really wouldn't have been much for her to do, since your company was a fraud," Peggy noted.

"True," Roger said without missing a beat. "But oh well, it would have been nice anyway."

Peggy shook her head. "How does someone like you even live with yourself from day to day?" Ordinarily she would never ask such a thing of a houseguest, even if she strongly disapproved of their lifestyle choices. But since Roger had been a friend of Joe's and she and he had interacted semi-frequently in the past, she felt bold enough and unapologetic enough to determine to inquire.

"Very easily, most of the time," Roger answered. "Joe had me pegged when I showed up here last night. As I see it, most of the world is filled with selfish people who would betray you without a second thought. I'm just keeping ahead of them."

"So you never feel any real remorse at all?" Peggy frowned.

Roger fell silent. "I really don't want anyone to get hurt," he said. "I regretted the trouble when Joe was injured and Claudia was abducted by Benjamin Wish."

"But you left Joe to Wish's mercy later on," Peggy pointed out. "You knew Wish was capable of murder."

"Yes, but I didn't really think he would have taken the trouble to go through with it," Roger said.

"Would you have cared if he had?"

". . . I would have regretted it, yes," Roger said after a brief silence. "And I regret that Claudia is now the prisoner of the one man we haven't been able to outsmart."

"Joe's right that you don't seem too keen on doing anything about it," Peggy said.

"It wouldn't have done Claudia any good if I'd come downstairs while Joe was being attacked," Roger retorted. "Barstow would have threatened me with her safety and that would have been that. I'm trusting Joe to find out where Barstow is. He must have a base around here somewhere."

"I've been looking, but I haven't found anything," Peggy objected. "Maybe he owns a house under another name."

"At least we finally _have_ a name," Roger said. "Claudia and I didn't know it at all. Perhaps he's only using part of his name. Have you tried using Raymond as a surname?"

"I was going to try that next," Peggy said.

"Smashing," Roger smiled.

The door opened and both of them came to attention. "Hi, Mom," Toby greeted as he entered the outer office, basketball under his arm.

"Hello, Toby," Peggy smiled. "I thought you were going to play basketball with Arnie Ferris?"

"He got stuck doing more chores today," Toby frowned, "so he said it might be a while." He looked over to Roger, who was easing himself into a sitting position on the couch. "Hi. Who are you?"

"Roger Bard, my young chap," Roger smiled charmingly, holding out a hand. "I'm a client of Mr. Mannix's."

"Oh." Toby shook Roger's hand. "Mom talked about you sometimes. She said you used to have a business around here."

"Yes, once upon a time, I did," Roger said.

"I guess you don't play basketball, do you?" Toby asked.

"Oh, I'm afraid not. Especially right now." Roger winced. "I'm a bit . . . under the weather."

"I'm sorry," Toby said. "I hope you feel better soon."

"Why, thank you, Toby." Suddenly thinking of something, Roger reached into his coat pocket. "Tell me, do you like magic tricks?"

"Sure, if they're really cool," Toby answered.

"Ah. Well, watch this." Roger spread a deck of cards facedown in his hands. "Pick a card and look at it." Toby did so. "Now hand it to me." Once Roger was holding it, he flipped it between his fingers and it vanished.

"Hey, where'd it go?" Toby exclaimed.

"That's a good question," Roger mused. "But wait." He reached into Toby's shirt pocket, pulling out the missing card. "Is this it?"

Toby stared at the image. "Yeah, it is! How'd you get it in there?"

"I really don't know. It must have just jumped in all by itself," Roger said with a cheeky smile.

"That was cool," Toby said. "Can you teach me how to do it?"

"Certainly, if your mother doesn't mind." Roger glanced to Peggy, who half-smiled.

"As long as you don't teach him anything besides innocent magic tricks, it's fine," she said.

Toby blinked. "What else would he be teaching me?"

"Nevermind," Roger quickly interjected. "Now, the key to this and many other magic tricks is, of course, distraction. Keep the audience involved with one thing you're doing so that they don't notice what else is happening."

Peggy shook her head, turning away with a fond smile to continue her search. If Roger could keep Toby entertained for a while, that would be good for all of them.

Again the door opened. Peggy started, looking up as Joe strode in with furious determination and crossed to the wall where the safe was hidden. "Joe, what is it?" she gasped. "What's wrong?"

"That nice guy we met at the hospital last night isn't such a nice guy after all," Joe said bitterly, uncovering and opening the safe. He placed an envelope inside, underneath the other contents, and then closed and locked the door again.

"Joe, what do you mean?" Peggy demanded.

"He was mixed up with a scheme to make it look like Lew was the one committing _his_ crimes," Joe spat. He spun about, heading for the door again. "By the way, have you made any progress on Barstow's whereabouts?"

"Not yet, Joe," Peggy sighed. "But what are you going to do?!"

"I'm going to give Jason Faulk a piece of my mind," Joe snarled.

"What about going out to the crime scene today?" Roger asked.

"Later," Joe barked. Barely glancing at Roger and Toby, he stormed out the door.

"What's wrong with Mr. Mannix?" Toby asked in concern.

"I don't know, Sweetheart," Peggy said with a frown. "He's really upset and sad about a close friend of his dying. Now it sounds like someone was trying to make it look like his friend was doing bad things when he wasn't."

Toby frowned. "That would make me mad, too," he proclaimed.

"It would make most people mad, Toby," said Roger. "Shall we get back to our lesson?"

Toby perked up and turned to face him. "Yeah!"

"Alright then. Now the next step is . . ."

Peggy tuned them out as she picked up the phone to make another inquiry. She hoped that Joe would be safe. He took too many chances as it was. Now that he was trying to find out who was responsible for Lew Wickersham's death, he was liable to take even more.

Changing her mind, Peggy dialed the police department instead. Before furthering her part of the investigation, she should really let Lieutenant Malcolm know what Joe was up to.

xxxx

Paul Raymond Barstow considered himself a patient man. But as everyone he spoke with continued to deny possession of the gold that he felt was rightfully his, his patience was growing more and more weakened.

"And what about you, my dear?" he said to Claudia as he came to interview her on the second floor of his mansion. "Do you still maintain a lack of knowledge as to my gold's current whereabouts?"

"Yes!" Claudia retorted. "Roger and I don't have it. Neither does Mr. Mannix."

"But what about Mr. Mannix's friend Llewellyn Wickersham, God rest his soul?" Barstow's eyes flashed. "We know he had it. We even know you were seen talking with him shortly before Benji apprehended you."

"It was a coincidence!" Claudia exclaimed. "I was asking directions. There wasn't even any mention of the gold! I had no idea that he was the one who took it from Roger!"

"Perhaps Mr. Bard just didn't bother to tell you, dear Claudia." Barstow looked firmly into Claudia's eyes. "Perhaps he struck up a deal with Mr. Wickersham and had no intention of ever telling you. And now Mr. Wickersham is dead and Mr. Bard won't have to share his prize."

"That isn't true!" Claudia cried.

"Come now. You know how cheating is second nature to Roger. What would stop him from cheating you as he has cheated countless others?"

Claudia didn't really have an answer for that. Roger had double-crossed everyone else. It did sound fantastic that she would be the only one exempt from that, even though she fully believed she was.

"Well," she said at last, "even if Roger has cheated me, I won't fall in with you instead. I certainly can't trust _you._"

Barstow's blue eyes flamed. Fighting desperately to control his temper, he bit back a retort and said through clipped lips, "You can trust that Mr. Bard will be harmed if you continue to be so unhelpful. Even if you don't know where the gold is, you must know more than you're saying. And perhaps with your charms you could convince Mr. Bard to reveal everything in spite of himself."

"If he is truly turning against me, nothing will penetrate that," Claudia insisted.

"Very well!" Barstow snarled. "I am going to send a message to Mr. Bard that you will be killed within twenty-four hours if the gold is not produced. You had better hope that he hasn't betrayed you. Or that even if he has, he cares enough to not want to see you dead." He turned, storming out the door and locking it behind him.

Claudia immediately sprang into action, hurrying to the window and looking out. As always, a guard was posted below and the vicious dogs were free, roaming around the large yard.

As always, Claudia turned away, desperately trying to think of a way out. And also as always, the solution eluded her.

xxxx

Jason Faulk had settled in at his desk in his office when the door suddenly flew open and Joe Mannix marched in, followed by two frustrated and chagrined security guards.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Faulk. We couldn't keep him out," the first one exclaimed.

Jason frowned. "Nevermind. I met this man last night. He's alright. Leave us."

Joe waited until the guards had left before speaking. "Last night you told me you'd never heard of anyone named Lew."

Jason laced his fingers on top of the desk. "I haven't," he said calmly.

"Then why have several of your employees told me that Lew Wickersham was in here yesterday, only hours before he was killed?" Joe snapped. "They said had you had a violent quarrel and he had to be dragged out by two security guards."

"Oh." Something flickered in Jason's eyes but then was gone. "You'll have to forgive me, Mr. Mannix. When you found me, I was still dazed from whatever had happened to me. I didn't remember Mr. Wickersham or our quarrel right then."

"I just bet you didn't." Joe peered at him. "And I bet you didn't remember that you were planning to frame Lew, either."

"What?" Jason looked incredulous. "Mr. Mannix, I am an honest man. I have never framed anyone for anything and I don't intend to start."

"There's evidence out there that says you've done more than just start," Joe declared, rushing to the desk and leaning forward with his hands flat on the surface. "In fact, I'm starting to wonder if you could have engineered Lew's death."

That did it. Jason leaped from the seat, his eyes flashing in rage. "How dare you!" he roared. "I've never killed anyone in cold blood, nor have I ever ordered it done!"

For a brief moment, the 180-degree switch in the man's manner surprised Joe. But then he pushed back his surprise and glared stonily in response. "I hope you're telling the truth, Mr. Faulk," he said coldly. "Because if I find even a smidgen of evidence to the contrary, I'm going to come down on you so hard you won't know what hit you. And even if you had nothing to do with Lew's death, I won't forget about the crimes you were committing that Lew knew all about."

"I haven't committed any crimes!" Jason screamed. He reached to press the security button. "You have no right to question my integrity. Get out!"

"Fine; I will. Don't bother to call your goons." Joe turned to stalk towards the door.

Jason stared after him for a long moment, fuming and furious. But then he sank into his chair, reaching a shaking hand to rub his throbbing forehead.

"What was I talking about?" he mumbled. "He's right; I've committed crimes for years. It would be one thing if I was just denying it now to save my own skin, but instead I . . . when I was screaming at him, I honestly believed what I was saying. For those few moments, I actually thought I was a good person."

And there was how he still felt leery of doing anything with the gold except turning it over to the police, even though that would mean he would be convicted of possessing it.

He took off his glasses, rubbing at his eyes.

The phone buzzed moments later. Still shaken from his experience, Jason pressed the flashing button. "Yes? What is it?"

"Mr. Faulk? You do remember about the shipment coming in tonight?"

Jason frowned. "Shipment?"

"Yes, at Wharf 33."

_Smuggled items,_ he remembered. They always came to Wharf 33.

"I remember," he said. "The same time as usual?"

"Yes, Sir. Ten o'clock."

"I'll be there. Thank you, Miss Martel."

Jason hung up, deep in thought. Normally he wouldn't think a thing of going to pick up the smuggled goods. But now, after the thought of doing anything crooked was turning his stomach, he wasn't sure what to think.

Perhaps, even though it could put him in jeopardy, he would call the police instead of going to the wharf. They could confiscate the shipment and arrest those delivering it. And if he made the call anonymously, he could stay out of jail for a while longer, anyway.

Yes, he decided in satisfaction, that was what he would do.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

When the day had begun, Joe had never thought he would end it by hiding in the shadows and watching the infamous Wharf 33. It had already been the scene of a crime in the recent past, when a warehouse had been deliberately blown up in an attempt to kill some reformed jewel thief. Now, if Joe didn't have his wires crossed, it was being used to smuggle in who knew what.

After leaving Faulk's office, Joe had done something he had been dreading but that had to be done—visiting Lew's mother. Of course she had been stricken by the horrible news; when Joe had gone to her door she had clearly still been crying. But she had tried to pull herself together for his sake. She had been grateful he had come.

"_Joe, it's so good to see you,"_ she had weakly but genuinely smiled. _"Your friendship always meant so much to Lew."_

"_It meant a lot to me too, Mrs. Wickersham," _Joe had quietly replied.

They had spent some time together, mourning and reminiscing, until Joe had known he needed to go and get back to the case. Apologizing for having to depart, he had gotten up and headed for the door.

"_You will keep in touch, won't you, Joe?"_ she had asked, following him halfway.

He had turned and smiled. _"Of course."_

He had spent most of the ensuing afternoon hours chasing down people who knew Jason Faulk. It had been a very strange and surreal experience. All had given him similar information as Faulk's ex-girlfriend had.

"_Nice?" _she had laughed, sprawled with a drink on the sofa in a sparkly red dress and sash. _"He was nice to you? Oh, not Jason. Especially not after you startled him out of his mind. He never would be. Why, if anyone startled him, he'd be swearing and cursing a mile a minute."_

"_He was nice the second time I saw him too, except when I accused him of criminal actions. You should have heard him explode then."_ Joe had walked around the couch, trailing his hand along the top of it.

The drunken woman had found that even more hilarious than Joe's previous statement. _"Wow, who the heck have you been talking to, Mannix? It sure wasn't Jason! Jason's the type of guy who would admit to stuff he'd done, as long as there was no proof that could actually be used against him. He'd __**brag**__ about it!"_

Joe had left deeply troubled. And now, as he sat and waited for he didn't know what, he still was.

How could Faulk show two such completely different sides to his personality? Apparently he showed the nasty side to everyone he knew and met, except to Joe. What made Joe the only exception? Why would Faulk show him kindness when he treated the entire world like dirt? It didn't make sense.

Joe had checked in with Peggy before coming out here. She still hadn't had any luck locating any property owned by either Paul Raymond or Paul Raymond Barstow. Now, out of desperation, she was trying _Paul_ as the surname.

Barstow was keeping in touch with them, however; he had sent a communication warning that Claudia's life was forfeit in twenty-four hours without the return of the gold. Roger had been very upset and concerned about that, but didn't know what to do other than steal some more gold and try to pass it off as Barstow's. If he wasn't finding it difficult to move about, Peggy was sure he would have done it.

"_It's been an interesting day, Joe,"_ she had told Joe. _"Toby was here for a lot of it. He and Roger seem to have really hit it off. Roger showed him some magic tricks and then told him some of his and Claudia's misadventures. He was careful not to mention anything about stealing anything or other criminal activities, but I'm not sure I like him painting himself as a hero."_

Joe had winced. Roger certainly wasn't a decent idol for the kid. _"Sorry, Peggy,"_ he had apologized. _"We'll have to straighten it out when I get back. What's happening now?"_

"_Well, I know Roger shouldn't be here alone, so I thought maybe we'd take him back to the apartment for dinner,"_ Peggy had answered. _"When do you think you'll be back, Joe?"_

"_I don't know, Peg."_ Joe had sighed, overwhelmed by the strangeness of the day. _"I never even got around to checking out the crime scene; I've been so involved unraveling Jason Faulk's part in all this. There's something really weird about that guy. Everyone says he's such a creep, and yet he didn't act like that at all with me."_

"_Hmm. Talk about multiple personalities."_ Peggy had sighed too, but hadn't really seemed too concerned about Faulk. _"Are you alright, Joe? I know it must be hard for you, with him looking so much like Lew."_

"_I'm telling you, Peggy, it's the weirdest thing. I'll never get used to it. I'm not sure I'll get used to Lew being dead, either,"_ he had muttered. But, wanting to change the subject, he had barreled on. _"Did you find out anything about Wharf 33?"_

"_Oh! Yes, I did. There's a ship docking there tonight. I can't find out if it's carrying smuggled goods, but it doesn't have any official connections with Jason Faulk."_

"_I'll soon find that out for myself," _Joe had determined. _"Night, Peggy. Don't wait up for me."_

And so he had been sitting and waiting for the ship, not knowing what would happen when it pulled in. It was an overcast night and foggy besides—not the most pleasant night to be out. And Joe's thoughts were wandering.

He wasn't a team player; he liked to do things on his own, the way he wanted them done. But he and Lew had made a good team nevertheless. They disagreed on the best methods of doing detective work, yet Lew had always listened and valued Joe's opinions and hunches. There had been many times when someone else had dismissed Joe's theories as complete hogwash, but Lew had wanted to consider them. And even the times when Joe's methods had been so unorthodox that Lew had been horrified and alarmed, he had generally gone along, trusting in Joe enough to believe that somehow it would work out the way Joe had planned.

They had saved each other's lives countless times. Why, Joe thought sadly, couldn't he have saved Lew this time?

He came to attention as a ship slowly rolled in. Jason Faulk was nowhere in sight, but as the ship docked and several crew members began to climb down and unload the cargo, Joe managed to catch quite an incriminating snippet of conversation.

"So what was it Faulk ordered this time?" one gruff voice chortled. "Louis XVI's silver? Ancient Chinese vases?"

Joe frowned. That sounded more like what Barstow would order.

"Nah. You're getting your orders mixed up. Faulk wanted silver, alright, but he wanted new stuff, fresh from the mine."

"And illegal, as always."

"Has Faulk ever ordered legal silver?" The second man slapped a crate as they set it down. "The stuff should be in this one right here."

They and Joe were all startled in the next moment by a voice over a loudspeaker.

"_This is the police. Step away from the crate and raise your hands in the air. You are under arrest!"_

Horrified, the smugglers contemplated running for a split-second. But then spotlights came on, shining on them from every direction, and they knew they were trapped. In defeat they raised their hands and allowed the officers to hurry forward and begin reading them their rights.

Joe slumped back, stunned. How had the police known to come? Who had leaked the information of the shipment?

It wouldn't take long for the smugglers to start talking and finger Faulk. Joe started his car's engine, pulling away in determination before he could be heard or seen and stopped. He wanted another interview with Faulk before the police picked him up.

xxxx

Claudia was nothing if not resourceful. Throughout the day she had planned various ways of escape and had mentally thought out what could go wrong with each one of them. She had weeded out two or three ideas that had a higher possibility of success and was determined to enact the one with the best possible chance tonight. She was not about to be used as a bartering chip to force Roger to comply with their enemy's wishes—which he couldn't do anyway, since he didn't have the gold.

She refused to believe he did. Her captor had only been trying to trick her and psych her out. Roger had been knocked unconscious and she herself had been chloroformed when someone had stolen the gold from them. She had awakened with poor Roger still unconscious on the floor and had had to struggle to revive him amid a ghastly chloroform-induced headache.

Crossing back to the window, she peered down at the guard, who was shifting position and uncomfortably holding his rifle. She had noted that over the past day, guards had changed about four times, each one holding his post for four hours. The pattern had been the same at the other places where she and Roger had been held.

The best time for escape was right when the guards were changing. There was always the chance that they would stop to talk for a moment, and even if not, the act of changing positions could in itself be enough of a distraction to allow for a jailbreak. Claudia had determined to try at the next changing of the guard, which was just about to happen now.

It was cliché and juvenile, but Claudia had taken the sheets and tied them together, then tied one around the bed leg. Climbing down wouldn't be such a problem. What she was concerned about was the possibility of an alarm going off when the window was opened. It would be just like that man, to rig up something like that. And the window might be locked, in which case she might even have to open it by breaking it. That would certainly make too much noise, even if the alarm didn't go off.

She really was getting desperate. Usually she used trickery or even feminine charms to get out of tight situations. And now instead, she was resorting to breaking windows and shimmying down sheets.

There—the second guard was coming now. It was time to make her move.

Naturally the window _was_ locked. She had really expected that. But she was determined to get out, no matter what. Grabbing the nearest chair, she heaved it at the window. It was a risk, and she might well be caught running, but at least she was sure they wouldn't gun her down. Not yet. Their boss still wanted her as a bargaining chip.

She ducked as the glass flew in all directions. Then, grabbing the sheets, she used them to brush aside the broken glass at the bottom of the windowpane before throwing them through the hole. Finally, taking a deep breath, she determinedly went through the hole and started down the side of the house.

The guards had certainly taken notice. "Hey!" one of them cried. "Get back in that room!"

"Why should I?" Claudia retorted, continuing her descent.

"We'll shoot," the second one declared.

"Against your employer's orders? I think not." Claudia leaped to the bottom quicker than they had expected and took off running.

Of course the guards were chasing her in the next moment. And the barking of dogs said loud and clear that she had more to worry about than human and electronic obstacles.

"Give it up, lady!" one of the guards yelled, firing off a shot.

Startled, Claudia stumbled. "Oh bother!" she exclaimed in frustration as the heel snapped on her shoe. Deciding there was no choice, she abandoned both shoes and flew over a bush. "I can run faster without them anyway," she muttered.

But the guards were running faster than she. And now she could see a dog running out from each side. Horrified and desperate, she dashed frantically to the nearest tree and leaped to the lowest branch. She managed to pull herself up just as one of the dogs snapped at her foot.

"Here now! What's all this horrid commotion?!"

She peered through the leaves as her captor appeared, furious at the noise.

"Mr. Barstow, the girl got out through the window and . . ."

"You idiot!" Barstow—oh, so that was his name!—pushed past the guards and stepped onto the lawn. "There's no need for such great panic. Claudia can't get off the property, not with all of my security efforts."

"But Sir . . . !"

"Nevermind! What madness have you terrorized the poor child into?" Barstow scanned the yard, searching for any sign of the missing captive.

Claudia continued to climb the tree, not sure what she was hoping for. Perhaps for a branch to extend far enough into the next property that she could slip down that way. But with her string of bad luck, it would probably be so high that she wouldn't possibly be able to jump without seriously injuring herself.

"Oh please," she whispered, not even sure who she was addressing. As if God would help an unrepentant con woman and thief!

Then she climbed high enough to see it—there was indeed a branch hanging near the edge of the fence around the property. She bit her lip. It was awfully close; the people in the next house must keep it trimmed, not wanting it hanging on their side of the fence. And the fence was electrically charged; Barstow had informed her of that upon their arrival. She could not touch it, even with a finger.

But Barstow was walking farther out now. The dogs were still barking; he knew where she was. Getting over the fence was her only chance. And this tree branch seemed to be the only way to do it.

"I must look a frightful mess," she berated quietly as she inched onto the branch. It trembled and she froze. If it didn't break, it would certainly reveal what she was up to. At least, if it could be seen from Barstow's or his guards' positions.

But there was nothing to do but press on. She moved faster, as quickly as she dared, and cringed at the feel of her nylons ripping all up the legs. She could feel there were leaves in her hair and hanging near her eyes as well.

Then one of the dogs saw her on the branch and gave a furious leap. The branch was much too high for it, but it had done its damage—her position was revealed.

With a yelp of "Bad dog!" Claudia took the plunge, flying off the branch and over the fence. She crashed in a bush of some kind and frantically struggled, trying to extricate herself. "Help!" she screamed, praying for the residents to hear and be friendly.

Friendlier than she deserved, maybe.

But amid the barking and snapping of the dogs, Barstow's vain orders for them to shut up, and his guards yelling to each other, the residents were already wide awake.

One of them ran over to Claudia, appalled. "Here now! What in Heaven's name are you doing here like that?!"

Claudia looked up with a start. "The men in that house have been holding me prisoner!" she exclaimed.

The man, who was probably the gardener, reached down to help her up. "They always seemed like quiet people before, except for those dogs," he frowned. "Come now; I'll take you to the house."

"I need to contact Joe Mannix," Claudia said desperately, wincing as she stepped out of the bush. She was scratched and bruised practically from head to toe. Leaves and twigs were hanging in her hair and she couldn't forget how her nylons had been ripped to shreds. In any other situation she would be positively mortified at her state, but right now she had more important things to worry about.

"Mannix?" The man looked thoughtful. "The name sounds familiar."

"He's a private detective," Claudia explained.

"Yeah, I think he solved a case for my boss once," the man said. "We'll get you inside and call the police and Mr. Mannix."

Claudia swallowed hard, envisioning how she could likely end up in jail. "Just Mr. Mannix, please," she said. "Not the police."

The man looked at her, stunned. "But . . ." He trailed off, shaking his head. "Nevermind. We'll see."

He turned to look up at the tree as he opened the back door to the house. "I meant to cut that branch some more if I could," he said. "But I was too scared of bumping into that death fence."

"Thank goodness you were," Claudia said emphatically. "I barely made it over as it was!" She looked back, worry in her eyes. "And they might come for me."

"There's guards here, too," the man said. "And dogs. You should be safe until we can find Mr. Mannix."

Claudia hoped so. And she hoped that Roger was doing well wherever he was.

xxxx

Peggy had been right about it being a long day. Dinner was long over now and Roger had been entertaining Toby with another adventurous tale. Peggy cleared the table and readied the dishes for the dishwasher, frowning as she wondered what to do about this latest problem.

"Wow!" she heard Toby exclaim. "It's really something how you've done all these things. You're just like Indiana Jones!"

Roger gave a short, uncomfortable laugh. "Ha. Yes, well, perhaps not quite. I've never found any incredible religious relics, as it's been reported he found in the 1930s. But I must say, when it comes to getting in and out of scrapes, Claudia and I have been quite adept."

"I wish I could go on an adventure with you sometime," Toby said wistfully.

That was most definitely the last thing Peggy wanted him dreaming about. Setting the current dish aside, she hurried back into the living room. "Well, young man, right now you need to get some sleep to have an adventure tomorrow in your school books."

"Aww, Mom." Toby sighed. "Okay." He slid down from the couch. "Goodnight, Mr. Bard. Thanks for telling me all those neat stories. And for teaching me your magic tricks."

Roger smiled. "You're welcome, Toby. Thank you for being such a good listener."

Toby went to Peggy, hugging her around the waist. "Goodnight, Mom."

Peggy had to smile, fondly. "Goodnight, Toby," she said as she returned the embrace. "Don't forget to brush your teeth."

Toby gave an exaggerated sigh. "I won't."

Once he had vanished, Roger leaned back on the couch and looked up at Peggy. "That's a fine son you have."

"Don't I know it. But I would really prefer if you didn't build yourself up in his eyes like you're doing." Peggy came closer to the couch, frowning at him. "We both know you're not a heroic adventurer, as you're making yourself sound."

The uncomfortable smile returned and Roger began scratching his ear, a nervous habit he had held for as long as Peggy and Joe had known him. "I swear I'm really not trying to get the boy to idolize me, Mrs. Fair," he said. "I suppose I just . . . wanted someone to talk to today. It's been such a blasted long day and it seems as though nothing has really gotten accomplished!"

"I know the feeling," Peggy said dryly. "But whether you meant to do it or not, it's happened. You fascinated Toby from the moment you showed an interest in him. It really has to stop. I don't want him thinking you're someone worth emulating."

"Well, if he doesn't know the rest of the story, is it really doing that much harm?" Roger countered. "It would be different if I was attempting to glorify crime. But I'm not."

"And I _am_ grateful for that," Peggy conceded. "However, only telling him part of the story is causing him to believe a lie. I don't want him to be let-down when he finds out what you really are."

"There's no reason why he should," Roger said airily. "Find out, that is."

"Oh, he'll find out," Peggy said with a sage nod. "These things always have a way of coming out into the open, no matter how we try to conceal them."

"You're right, of course," Roger consented. "Alright, I shall try to distance myself from the boy tomorrow."

"I'd really appreciate it." Peggy paused. "There's also the matter of where you're going to stay tonight. Joe didn't want you left alone and I wasn't able to find someone to stay with Toby."

"I'd be perfectly happy to stretch out on the couch tonight," Roger offered.

"You might still be too hurt for that," Peggy sighed.

"Well, I don't like the thought of us making the trip back to Joe's office tonight," Roger said. "Barstow's men might be watching the place. In fact, I suppose we could have been followed here."

"I don't think so," Peggy replied. "I've been taught pretty well on how to shake a tail." She walked to the doorway, hating to admit that Roger was right but knowing she really didn't want to leave Toby alone with these criminals at large. "You can take my bed tonight. I'll sleep on the couch."

"That's quite generous of you," Roger said. "I wouldn't like to impose."

_Wouldn't you, now?_ Peggy thought sarcastically. Aloud she said, "We need to keep you safe. At the same time, we also need to make sure you'll be able to heal properly and quickly. Go ahead and take the bed."

"Thank you," Roger smiled. "I believe I shall."

Peggy sighed and re-entered the kitchen, hoping she wouldn't regret this.

xxxx

Jason Faulk was calm, cool, and collected when Joe was shown into the house and to the study. Holding a drink in his hand, he looked up, unsurprised by Joe's entrance. "Mr. Mannix," he said coolly. "I didn't think we had any more to discuss."

"Oh, I think we have a lot more to discuss," Joe replied. "Like how you're probably going to jail soon."

"On what charge?" Jason downed the drink and set the empty glass aside.

"Smuggling, for starters." Joe advanced farther into the room. "The police just arrested the people who came in with your newest shipment of hot silver."

"Hmm. Interesting." Jason went and sat at his desk, lacing his fingers on his chest this time.

Joe stared at him, his jaw hanging open a bit. "You know, that wasn't the reaction I expected, especially after that explosion this afternoon."

"If you must know, Mr. Mannix, _I_ called the police," Jason said smoothly.

Joe kept staring. "Do you expect me to believe that? It was your shipment. You _wanted_ that stuff!"

"I can't explain what's going on, Mr. Mannix, but I do not want that 'stuff.' I told you I am an honest man and I meant it." Jason sat up straight. "Now if you would be so kind as to leave."

Recovering from the shock, Joe now found that he was angry. "Look, Faulk," he snarled, rushing to the desk and leaning on it again with his palms flat, "if you think this is going to get yourself in good with me, you've got another thing coming. I know you're not an honest man. _Lew_ knew it! You thought you destroyed all of his evidence against you and what you've been doing. Well, you didn't. And now the police are going to have it. I'm going to happily give it to them."

"Go ahead." Jason whipped off his glasses, glaring at Joe with sharp eyes of ice. "Mr. Wickersham may have collected what he thought was conclusive evidence against me, but I can assure you it isn't. I'm innocent of all his charges!"

They glowered at each other for a long moment before Joe finally broke the contact, admittedly shaken. "You know, I've never met anyone like you," he proclaimed. "I know you're guilty. _You_ know you're guilty. Yet when you're telling me these lies about your integrity, it feels like you really believe them. And you can almost make me believe them too." He turned to go. "I can't decide whether to feel sorry for you or not."

"Don't," Jason said crisply. "I'm sure you have better things to do with your time."

"I'm sure I do too," Joe snapped.

But as he walked back through the house, intending to go out the front door, he could not be at peace or settle down. The mysteries surrounding Jason Faulk were spinning through his mind again, teasing him, mocking him, frustrating him in his inability to understand. The solution was _there, _so near and yet so out of his reach. Why couldn't he make sense of it?!

"_Jason's never had a kind word for anyone. You know what he'd do if you told him you'd just lost a friend? Laugh and say 'Good riddance.'"_

"_If you startled him for any reason, he'd come at you swearing and cursing up a storm."_

"_Jason's probably about the most __**im**__moral man I've ever met. He brags about his criminal activities like they're trophies he's bringing home from the hunt."_

"_How dare you! I've never committed any crimes. You have no right to question my integrity!"_

Suddenly it clicked.

Joe stopped and stood, stone still, on the tiles, gasping in disbelief over the idea that had come to him. "No," he whispered. "It can't be."

But the more he thought about it, the more it made so much sense. It was the only thing that _did_ make sense.

And he had to know.

He spun back around, hurrying towards the study. "Lew!" he called at the doorway.

Jason, who had got up and was pacing about, jumped a mile. "What are you doing?!" he demanded. "Is this some kind of a joke?"

"I've never been more serious!" Joe rushed in, gripping the other man's upper arms. "Look at me and just listen. Everyone says you're a creep, that you'd even be proud of doing wrong. But to me you've been polite and cordial, except when I questioned your integrity. You insist you haven't committed any crimes and act like you really believe that, even though you've committed dozens of crimes and have been perfectly aware of it.

"Don't you get it?! The answer just now came to me. Jason Faulk is everything everyone says he is. Jason Faulk never acted different with me and wouldn't have even if we'd met, which we never have.

"You are _not_ Jason Faulk! I don't know what happened to you—maybe you hit your head too hard in the car crash—or why you have the wrong identification. Someone switched your I.D. with Faulk's! Faulk is the guy who died last night. And in spite of what you woke up believing, you are Lew Wickersham!"

Jason stared at Joe in utter disbelief. "You must be the one who hit his head," he objected.

"No, Lew, it makes sense," Joe insisted. "You were so caught up in investigating Faulk and probably still boiling mad from the encounter earlier that day. So when you suffered that traumatic blow to your head, your memories and your identity got all mixed up and you woke up thinking you were Jason Faulk! Maybe the switched I.D. really triggered it. You saw that when you took it out in the hotel and subconsciously you remembered Faulk and took his identity for yours when you couldn't remember anything else.

"But you remembered something else subconsciously too—that you are _not_ a criminal! That's why you've been so adamant about your integrity. It's why you called the police on the smugglers, even though you know Faulk is supposed to be a smuggler as well. It's why you just _can't_ be Faulk, even though you think you are!" Joe gripped Jason's arms even tighter. "The fact that you—the real you—really is an honest, upright man is so integral to who you are that you can't forget it even though you've forgotten everything else about yourself!"

Now Jason was the shaken one. He pulled away from Joe, his face pale and his eyes haunted. "No," he said. "You're wrong. That's nonsense, Joe."

"Aha!" Joe cried, pointing for emphasis. "Subconsciously you remembered something else. You didn't call me 'Mr. Mannix' this time!"

"No!" Jason pushed past Joe in a burst of panic, running out of the room and for the stairs. "Get out of here, Mannix! I don't want to see you here again!"

"You wouldn't be running if you didn't think I might be right!" Joe called after him. "I _know_ you're Lew now. I didn't lose you to death and I'm sure not going to lose you to a false identity! I'll get you back, no matter what it takes."

A slammed door was his only answer. But instead of feeling discouraged, Joe was buoyed up. Lew was alive! He was confused and mixed up and didn't consciously remember much of anything, but he was _alive._ Now Joe had the chance to save him, and he would.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

Jason stayed in his room even after he was sure Mannix had left. Then, overwhelmed and confused and despairing, he sank down at the desk and ran his hands through his hair.

"_You are __**not**__ Jason Faulk!"_

"_You are Lew Wickersham!"_

"_It makes sense!"_

No, it didn't! It _didn't._ He knew he was Jason Faulk. How could he not be?

His heart pounded. He was supposed to be a criminal. Why did it turn his stomach so much?

Couldn't he have decided to turn over a new leaf, maybe because of being cracked on the head?

Then why didn't he remember it?

Why didn't he remember _anything?_ He remembered his name and what he did, but when it came to people in his life or the details of his work or even his daily routines, he could scarcely dredge up a prayer.

But that didn't mean he was someone else. Maybe the knock on his head had given him amnesia, alright, but his I.D. had given him his name.

"I _am_ Jason Faulk," he said in determination. "But I won't be the man I was before. I'll live honestly."

"_That's nonsense, Joe."_

Why had he called Mannix by his first name? It had just tumbled out, as though on reflex. And it had made Mannix believe all the more that he was the deceased man Lew Wickersham.

Joe was just having pipedreams, wasn't he? He was just so upset and sad about his friend dying that he was equating Jason's odd behavior with his friend's.

Wasn't he?

Jason got up, beginning to pace.

Who _was_ he?

Going back to the desk, he hauled the drawer open and pawed through the contents. Aside from one small key, it was all snapshots. . . . Snapshots of various girls, various poses, all apparently taken right in the bedroom. . . .

He threw the stack down in disgust and shock. He wasn't that kind of person! He_ wasn't!_

But how did he know he wasn't? Why did immoral and criminal acts repulse him so?

"Oh!" He flung his glasses on top of the desk, agonized. Now he had a pounding headache, but it wasn't from the injury. He rubbed at his temples as he sank into the chair.

"What's happened to me?" he cried, without half-processing what he was saying. "Joe . . . what's happened to me? I don't recognize myself anymore. I don't . . ."

Now part of him regretted sending Mannix away. Mannix could tell him more about Lew Wickersham and their friendship and maybe, possibly, if he really was this other man, maybe he would start to remember.

He got up in determination. It shouldn't be too hard to find Mannix's phone number. He would find it and call. He had to do something or he would go out of his mind.

xxxx

Art was startled when his office door flew open and Joe blew in like a whirlwind. "Joe," he said in bewilderment, "what do you think you're doing? Do you know what time it is?"

"Art, I want you to run the fingerprints of the body you identified as Lew," Joe replied.

Art stared. "Joe . . . !"

"I'm serious, Art," Joe said firmly, pressing his hands on the desk. "I want those fingerprints checked!"

"Why, Joe?!" Art exclaimed. "The body is Wickersham's. You saw it too and identified it."

"Yeah, but I made a mistake. We both forgot that Jason Faulk looks just like Lew." Joe looked intensely into Art's eyes. "It's Faulk who's dead. Someone switched their identification!"

Art pushed himself back from the desk. "So the currently living Jason Faulk is really Lew Wickersham, walking around pretending he's Jason Faulk?"

"No!" Joe shot back. "Lew really believes he's Faulk! It must have been that knock on the head that did it."

Art shook his head. "That's some pretty heavy stuff. Do you have any proof?"

"Nothing I could take into court," Joe growled. "Not without those fingerprints."

"Joe, the police have been questioning some smugglers arrested on Wharf 33 tonight," Art said patiently. "They've named Jason Faulk as their partner in crime."

"Then please, Art, for the love of Pete, tell the police to wait before going to arrest him!" Joe pleaded. "Check the fingerprints. When I talked to Lew tonight, he told me _he_ was the one who called the police on the smugglers."

"And that's why you think he's Wickersham?" Art frowned.

"That's just one piece of the puzzle!" Joe straightened, beginning to pace. "Everyone says Faulk was a creep, to put it mildly. But this last day, he's been treating me of all people—and maybe everyone else—kind and decent, just like Lew did. And he keeps insisting he's not a criminal. If you could hear him, Art, you'd know it's not an act!

"Come on, Art," he begged, seeing Art's continuing skepticism. "Don't just let him be arrested. Find out if you've got the right man first. It won't take long to run those fingerprints!"

Finally Art sighed, rubbing his forehead. "Alright, Joe," he relented. "I'll run the fingerprints. But it's just possible nothing will even come up."

"If they're Faulk's, something will come up," Joe insisted. "He's been arrested before. He's just always managed to weasel out of it!"

Art nodded in resignation, reaching for the phone. "I'll tell the boys to hold off," he said. "But if I tell them why, they'll never believe it."

"They will once you have the proof," Joe said. "And you will."

Art looked up at Joe as he finished dialing the extension. "We'll see," he said. "Are you going to hang around for the results?"

"I might," Joe replied, sitting on the edge of Art's desk. "Maybe that will be incentive enough to get things moving faster."

Art had to smirk a bit. "It just might. We don't want you hanging around here for hours."

"That's what I thought," Joe proclaimed.

xxxx

The ringing of the phone startled Peggy out of a deep sleep. Forgetting for a moment where she was, she threw back the covers and started to climb out of what she thought was the bed. But when her feet hit the floor sooner than she had thought, she suddenly remembered she was on the couch. The injured Roger was sleeping in the bed.

The phone was still ringing. Sighing, Peggy hurried across the room and grabbed it up, hoping it hadn't awakened Toby. "Hello?"

"Mrs. Peggy Fair?"

She blinked in surprised at the female British voice. "Yes?"

"This is Claudia Redstone. You know, Roger Bard's friend? I've been trying and trying to reach Mr. Mannix, but I've been absolutely unable to at either his office or his motorcar. Then I remembered you and looked up your number."

"Yes, Ms. Redstone," Peggy said, snapping to attention. She had to wonder why Joe hadn't answered anywhere. Was he still staking out Wharf 33? Could he have been hurt? Worried, she nevertheless tried to focus on the conversation. "Where are you? Are you alright?"

"I'm a ghastly sight, really," Claudia berated. "But I'm not that bad off. I escaped from Barstow and his men and took a cab away from the neighborhood. Right now I'm not too far from Mr. Mannix's office and apartment. Everything looks dark."

"He's probably not there," Peggy frowned.

"What about Roger?" Claudia demanded. "Is he staying there?"

"Well, he was, but . . ." Peggy glanced behind her at the closed bedroom door. "Right now he's at my apartment. Mr. Mannix didn't want him to stay at the office alone."

"Oh, very good. Shall I come by and retrieve him?"

Peggy was again surprised. "Surely you're not thinking of leaving town while these people are still after you," she exclaimed.

"If we could slip away without them knowing where we've gone, it would surely be the best for everyone," Claudia said.

Peggy frowned. "Mr. Bard really shouldn't move around that much yet. He was very badly beaten."

A gasp. "He's badly hurt?!" She definitely sounded concerned. Peggy had to wonder if the two of them really cared about each other in spite of their cheating, double-crossing natures. They had certainly stayed together a long time.

"It's not serious," Peggy tried to assure her, "but it would definitely be better if he didn't try to go on the run right now. Why don't you check into a hotel for the night, Ms. Redstone, and I'll try to reach Mr. Mannix myself." She really didn't see how Claudia could come there. There weren't any guestrooms; there was no place left for Claudia to stay.

Claudia hesitated. "Well . . ."

Realizing the problem, Peggy winced. "Do you not have any money with you?"

"That wretched man has my bag and everything in it," Claudia said.

Peggy's thoughts tumbled. What should she do? There really wasn't any place for Claudia to stay in the apartment. She could leave and loan the other woman some money for the hotel, but then she would be leaving Toby alone with a professional conman. She didn't trust Roger from here to the doorknob.

Of course it was late, so maybe hopefully they would both just stay asleep until she got back.

"I'll tell you what," she said at last. "There are some nice hotels not too far from where you are. Why don't you wait there and I'll come out with some money to loan you for tonight."

"Oh, I'd hate to impose," Claudia said hesitantly, but with a certain tone in her voice that said she hoped the offer wouldn't be withdrawn. She was a professional too, after all.

"Mr. Bard is a client," Peggy said. "His and your safety is important to Mr. Mannix's case."

"Well, when you put it that charming way . . . yes, I could definitely use a bit of a loan."

"Fine. Then I'll be right out," Peggy said. "If you'll wait near the Royal Hotel, I should be there in twenty minutes."

"Alright. Thank you. But . . . isn't the Royal Hotel rather expensive?"

"You won't really be staying there, I'm afraid," Peggy said. "But it's a good landmark to meet at."

"That's good logic," Claudia said. "I'll wait."

They hung up and Peggy hurried into the bathroom, where she had left a change of clothes. Perhaps she should wake Roger up and have him go with her. It would certainly be preferable to get both him and Claudia into a hotel. But she didn't like leaving Toby completely alone, particularly with such dangerous men around. And if she woke him to come along, he would be a zombie at school in a few hours.

_A few hours!_ She looked at the clock. It was long after midnight. Where in the world had Joe got to? She would have to try his numbers before she left, as she had told Claudia.

Unfortunately, her luck wasn't any better than Claudia's. Joe was not answering anywhere. More than a little concerned, Peggy finally hung up the phone in defeat.

"What's happening?"

She looked up with a start at the mumbled British voice. Roger was standing in the bedroom doorway, still clearly half-asleep. His hair was a wild mess.

In other circumstances she might have been amused, but right now she was too worried. "Joe doesn't answer," she said. "For all I know, he's still staking out that wharf. Or maybe he was discovered and is lying hurt somewhere." She grabbed for the phone again. "I think I'd better call Lieutenant Malcolm."

"I thought I heard the phone jangling away," Roger said. "Was that only in a dream?"

"Oh! No, it wasn't. Claudia escaped from Barstow and needs a hotel for the night. I was going to loan her some money." Peggy was occupied, dialing the police station's number.

That woke Roger up some more. "So the old girl managed to do it again after all," he said, pleased. "Is she alright?"

"Better off than you were," Peggy said.

Roger smiled and laughed. "That's Claudia for you. Shall I dress and come along?"

"It would be better," Peggy admitted, "but I don't know what to do about Toby."

"Hmm. That is a problem, I suppose," Roger mused.

"It is," Peggy nodded. "Oh, hello? May I please speak to Lieutenant Malcolm? Thank you."

Roger lingered in the doorway, waiting to hear any more new revelations. But even as both he and Peggy were relieved when Peggy exclaimed, "He's there?" they were both quickly puzzled by what was said next. "You're what?! Joe, why on Earth are you having the fingerprints run on that poor man's body?"

Roger raised an eyebrow. "Has Mannix quite taken leave of the trolley now?"

Peggy waved a hand to shush him. Suddenly she was very serious. "Joe, you really believe that?"

Roger came closer, wanting to hear both sides of the conversation.

"I don't believe it, Peggy; I _know_ it," Joe insisted. "Lew is alive."

Peggy slumped back. "Well, for your sake, Joe, I hope you're right."

"So were you just calling to check up on me?" Joe wondered.

"No," Peggy admitted. "Something else has happened." Quickly she explained about Claudia.

"That's no problem, Peg," Joe said at the conclusion. "I'll go pick her up right now and Art can phone me the results of the fingerprint test. You just stay there and don't try to leave."

Peggy's shoulders slumped in relief. "Thanks, Joe." She paused. "And I hope that report will be what you're hoping for."

"Me too," said Joe, although he was really sure it would be.

"Well," Roger said as Peggy hung up, "everything is resolved then?"

"Joe will pick up Claudia," Peggy said. "You can go back to bed."

"Right." Roger turned to go, then paused. "He really believes his chum is alive?"

"That's what he said," Peggy said guardedly, not wanting to tell him too much.

Roger nodded, looking thoughtful. "That would be nice for him then."

"It would," Peggy agreed, hoping again for its truth.

xxxx

Paul Raymond Barstow was no longer patient. Claudia had escaped and apparently was nowhere in sight. An extensive search of the property and the neighborhood had turned up nothing but a threat to call the police on them from the gardener next-door.

"If you fools hadn't chased her across the lawn, this might not have happened!" he snarled at his lackeys. "Now who knows where she's managed to get to or to whom she's spoken!"

"She probably went back to Mannix, Boss," Benji quavered.

"Perhaps," Barstow conceded. "But our man there hasn't checked in. His last report said that the secretary had left with Mr. Bard and her son. He tried to follow them, but lost them in the dinner traffic!" He clenched his teeth in utter aggravation. "All of you have been proving utterly incompetent!"

"Sorry, Boss," Benji mumbled.

A second henchman entered the room, carrying the newspaper from earlier that evening. "Boss?"

"Unless you have news of Claudia or the gold, I am quite uninterested," Barstow scowled.

"But Boss, this might be about the gold!" The henchman held up the paper. "Look!"

"Hmm?" Barstow glowered as he accepted the paper and looked to where the grunt was pointing. But then his eyes opened wide. _"Attack on Jason Faulk, Financier, Leaves Police Baffled,"_ he read.

"The guy looks just like Wickersham!" the henchman exclaimed.

"I know; I can see that." Barstow frowned deeply, studying the photograph. "This is uncanny. Is there any possibility that you murdered the wrong man?"

"No, Boss!" Benji put in. "Remember, the police would have checked the I.D. and stuff."

"Yes, that's right." Barstow frowned. "Well, then. The possibility remains that Mr. Wickersham may have been the wrong man. Perhaps it was this Jason Faulk all along who took the gold. I only saw the man briefly and made the identification of Llewellyn Wickersham based on your remembrance of him testifying against your cousin. And then we even went to his office at Intertect to speak with him." He glared accusingly at Benji, who shrank back in nervous guilt.

"Well . . . even if he didn't know what we were talking about when we went to his office asking about the gold, at least now he's dead and can't ever tell the police," he said, hoping to salvage some of a possible mistake.

"Killing when not needed is so wasteful," Barstow declared. "But come; now we must learn Mr. Faulk's address and pay him a visit." He set the paper on the table and headed for the door in determination. His henchmen trailed after him once again. All hoped that this time, their efforts would prove fruitful.

xxxx

By this time Jason had not succeeded in reaching Joe and had instead managed to practically tear the house apart—or at least, that was how both the butler and the housekeeper exaggerated his wild, frantic search through all of his private papers and files.

"Sir, please!" the butler exclaimed. "Wouldn't it be more beneficial for you to go up to bed now? You're still not recovered from that outrageous assault."

"Depravity!" Jason cried in return. "Utter, complete depravity!" He slammed a stack of papers on the nearest table. "I'm not like this! This man who did all of these things is not me! He _couldn't_ be me!"

"Sir, _please_ come to bed," the housekeeper begged, reaching for his arm.

He gently patted her hand and set it aside. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Simmons. I can't possibly sleep right now. I'm terribly sorry I woke you and your husband up. I promise I'll be more quiet."

Mrs. Simmons slumped back, confusion and bewilderment in her eyes. "That blow to your head really did something to you, Sir," she gasped. "You're so completely different now."

That was not what he wanted to hear. "I was never like the man those papers speak of," he said, pointing to the stack. "I couldn't have been."

But part of him still doubted. He found he wanted to believe Mannix's story that he was someone else, but what if it wasn't true? What if he was Jason Faulk, as he had believed, and the blow had just awakened him to a realization of how repulsive his life had been up to that point?

Sighing, he held a hand to his forehead and turned away to go back upstairs. "I won't make any more commotion," he promised. "Go back to bed, please."

At the top of the stairs he entered the bedroom again and looked around. Really, it didn't even seem appealing to stay in here when he knew of Faulk's activities and wondered what else had been going on. He didn't really want to stay anywhere in this house at all. Maybe he would go to a hotel for the night and resume trying to contact Mannix in the morning.

That sounded like the best idea. He grabbed up his suit coat and slung it over his arm. But as he started out of the room, he knocked into the table by the bed by accident. Something clicked and a compartment in the headboard snapped open. He paused, looking to it in confused amazement. There was a dark green strongbox inside.

Curious and intrigued, he went back to the bed and laid the coat on the quilt as he reached for the container. It was heavier than he had expected. But he gripped it tightly and set it on the bed. It was locked, but perhaps the key in the drawer was meant to open it. Fishing it out, he inserted it in the lock and turned it. It clicked.

The sight amazed and stunned him when he lifted the lid. _Gold. . . ._ The entire box was filled with gold bars and coins! He hadn't remembered putting the gold here. Was this all of it or was there more? He needed to turn it all over to the police.

The sudden pounding on the door downstairs made him start and snap the box closed. Who would be coming at this hour of the night? Surely Mannix hadn't returned now, of all times. Quickly he locked the box and slipped the key onto his keyring. He would have replaced the box in the compartment, but the door was already being opened and he paused, straining to hear the new voices.

"Hey, uh, we're sorry to call so late," said someone who sounded like a New York thug. "Our boss needs to see Mr. Faulk."

"At this time of night?" Mr. Simmons exclaimed.

"It really can't be helped," said another, fuller and cultured voice. "Do go and retrieve him, won't you, my good man?"

He didn't recognize the voices. Or rather, he didn't recognize to whom they belonged, but he recognized that they meant him no good. They struck a cold fear in his heart and up his spine. Were they responsible for the assault? Could they have been trying to take the gold?

"Mr. Faulk can't be disturbed at this hour," Mr. Simmons was insisting. "Please come back tomorrow."

"Tomorrow might be too late," the cultured voice replied. "If you will not cooperate voluntarily, I'm afraid the boys may have to get a bit rough."

Jason tensed. They would beat up an older man in their determination to talk with him? It very likely could be about the gold; he had stolen it from someone (or Jason had, if he wasn't really Jason) and that person had probably stolen it from someone else before that.

Debating what to do, he finally shoved the box back in the compartment, closed it, and moved the table farther away from the bed. Then, hoping he would appear calm, he took up his suit coat and walked out of the bedroom.

"There's no need for such treatment," he frowned down at the group. One man was very large, flanked by two musclemen. He still did not recognize them, but seeing them brought the chill even more strongly. He knew them from somewhere. They had hurt him.

The large man looked up. "Ah! Mr. Faulk. There is certainly no mistaking your identity." He started towards the stairs, holding out a hand to shake. "Has anyone ever informed you that you bear an incredible resemblance to the head of a successful detective agency? The poor man was killed last night."

"I've been told," Jason said guardedly. He started down the stairs, but did not accept the offer to shake hands. "What is it that couldn't wait until tomorrow?"

"I see no need to engage in verbal checkers," the visitor said. "To put it bluntly, Mr. Faulk, we are looking for something of great value that was stolen from me recently. We know it changed hands once more after that, and we had believed it was this other man who took it from us. But now that we have become aware of your existence, it seems quite possible that we made a mistake in our identification."

"And what did you do to this other man?" Jason said coldly. "Are you responsible for his death?"

"Come now, Mr. Faulk, that's quite an accusation," the cultured man replied. "And it's completely irrelevant to my question. Do you or do you not have a large amount of gold, more than any private citizen is legally permitted to own?"

"My question is entirely relevant to yours," Jason insisted. "Whether or not I have this gold, what are you planning to do with me? If you killed my double, you would most assuredly be capable of killing me. And I have no intention of dying now, particularly after already surviving one attempt on my life."

The other man's lips pressed into a thin, angry smile. "We can certainly make things difficult for you, Mr. Faulk, regardless of whether we actually kill you." The two thugs stepped forward.

Mr. Simmons' eyes widened. "No, please!" he exclaimed.

The leader turned to look at him, somewhat boredly. "Do you really care what we do with him?" he queried. "Surely he has treated you cruelly all through the years, the same as he has treated everyone else."

"I still don't want a murder committed!" Mr. Simmons retorted.

Jason took the opportunity of the distraction to suddenly kick out, striking the thug nearest to him and sending him down the first two steps to the floor. When the second one lunged, Jason punched him in the stomach, leaped past the first thug on the floor, and ran.

Their boss looked ready to explode with rage. "After him!" he roared.

His henchmen struggled up, chasing after the fleeing Jason. One of them pulled a gun, firing a warning shot that barely missed him.

Flinging open the front door, Jason rushed onto the porch and turned to the side, heading for the car parked in the driveway. He didn't have that much headway, really. As he leaped off the edge of the porch, also clearing a bush in the process, he could hear the thugs emerging onto the porch. While he took out his keyring and remotely unlocked the car, one of them fired again, this time clipping his arm. He hissed in pain but grabbed the driver's door of the car, hauling it open. It only took several more seconds to get into the car and start it up. He pealed out of the driveway, going much faster than he would dare under ordinary circumstances. He was around the corner before his enemies had gotten anywhere near their car.

He was safe, perhaps, but for how long?

xxxx

Joe was heading for the area where Peggy had said Claudia was waiting. He kept a sharp eye out for her, while at the same time staying alert to hear if the phone rang. When it did, he snapped up the receiver instantly. "Mannix," he barked.

"Joe?" It was Art. He sounded amazed. That could only mean one thing.

"The fingerprints came back, didn't they," Joe said.

"They did. And you were right, Joe. They are Jason Faulk's prints. He's the dead man."

"That's great!" Joe exclaimed. "Thanks, Art. Now I need to take a copy of the fingerprint report and show it to Lew. Maybe that will help convince him of the truth. Can you have a copy ready for me? There's something I've got to do first."

"Sure, Joe. But when are you ever going to take time to sleep?"

"Sleep can wait," Joe replied. Although when he thought of it, he hadn't slept last night. Right now he was running on pure adrenaline. When it wore off, he was going to be absolutely exhausted. Maybe after showing Lew the fingerprint report, he would have to crash.

"Joe, you're ruining your health," Art scolded.

"I should still be good to go for a little while longer," Joe said. "Don't worry, Art; I'll get some rest soon."

He hung up, still rejoicing in the news. At least something was going right.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

Roger could not go back to sleep. He should have been able to, really; the bed was extremely soft and comfortable and delightful. But instead his mind was running a mile a minute and he could not make it settle down.

Claudia had escaped. That certainly made him relieved and joyous, but he worried whether their good luck would last. Perhaps Barstow would catch up to her before Mannix could reach her.

And now Joe had some bizarre idea that his dead friend was really alive and the other chap had been the one to die? Well, it was certainly a nice thought. And it would gratify Roger if he no longer had to feel so guilty for not stopping to help the poor man. But it sounded like such a flight of fantasy that Roger really didn't know how he could ever believe it, at least not at this stage.

He sighed, slumping deeper into the pillows. What a strange series of events. It had all started when he had run off with that bloody infamous gold. Then he and Claudia had been pursued by Barstow and his men and the whole rotten mess had unraveled to what it was now.

Both Joe and Peggy had questioned Roger's carefree, criminal lifestyle. It certainly wasn't the only time someone had done so, but for once someone's words were making him stop and think.

How many times could he use a friend before they just wouldn't be able to take it any longer? He really hadn't expected Mannix would do all for him that he had now. And of course, Mannix had said he was only doing that much because Roger had involved him.

Joe had really been the only true friend he and Claudia had had. And they had betrayed him, just as they had betrayed everyone else. Finally Joe had tricked them in order to get the stolen money and send it back to England. But he had let them go instead of having them arrested. He must have had an odd soft spot for them, as they had for him. They hadn't actually wanted him hurt, and he had reciprocated.

Roger closed his eyes, finally slipping into an uneasy doze.

xxxx

Jason, or Lew, or whatever he was calling himself these days, finally started to slow down as he approached Paseo Verde. He had gotten Joe's address from the telephone directory, but only now was it dawning on him that he had driven here without once stopping to check the GPS or ask for directions.

He slumped back. How had he come here from memory, unless he had been here many times before? And why would he have come here at all if not to visit Mannix?

He perked up as he noticed a dark car parked near 17. The person sitting in the driver's seat gave him the same kind of chill that the people back at Jason's house did. He had not meant Lew any good. He could not mean any good for Mannix now.

On a whim Lew opened the glove compartment. As he had half-expected, Jason was keeping a gun there. Taking it out, Lew quietly stepped out of the car and went over to the other. "Get out," he ordered.

The driver started to look up, lazily, but then stiffened, his eyes widening. Lew wasn't sure if it was because of the gun or because he thought the man standing before him was dead. Or both.

In any case, he opened the door and slowly started to step onto the sidewalk. "Look, Mister, I'm not doing anything," he protested.

"And you're not going to have the chance," Lew retorted. "Turn around and put your hands on top of the car."

The mysterious man seemed about to comply. But without warning he spun back around, gun in hand. "I don't know how you survived both the crash and being clubbed on the head," he snarled, "but you are not gonna walk away from this bullet."

Lew fired first, sending the gun spinning out of the shocked thug's hand. "Are you the one who did both of those things to me?" he demanded.

"I helped rig the brakes to fail," was the grudging reply. "It was one of the other guys who hit you." As Lew stepped closer and prodded with the gun, he turned around and placed his hands on the roof of the car.

Lew started to frisk him for other weapons. Finding none, he said, "Turn back around and take your tie off."

Sullen, the thug complied. "Just tell me what the deal is with the story in the paper that you're dead," he queried. "Was it some gag the cops cooked up?"

"No," Lew retorted. Sticking the gun in his belt, he took the tie and began tying the thug's hands behind his back. "There were two men. The one who was hit on the head did die."

"No way!" The thug tried to twist around to look at him. "You mean there's another guy who looks like you?!"

"There was," Lew said.

"So why did the dead guy have your I.D.?" the thug demanded.

"I'd like to know that myself," Lew muttered. And whether it really _was_ his I.D. Even if he called himself _Lew_, that did not make it the truth. Just because he was starting to believe its truth, and it was seeming more and more likely, there could still be an unpleasant surprise.

But he was not about to reveal that he had amnesia. That was something this character could use against him, if he wanted.

Taking the gun again, he held it on the now-restrained thug. "Tell me why you were staking out Mannix's office," he demanded.

"Orders," was the retort. "The boss thought maybe someone would come back."

"And what would you have done if someone had?"

"Taken them back to the boss. He really wants that gold back!"

"Well, he's not going to get it," Lew said harshly. "Walk over here." He indicated Jason's car.

The thug obeyed, not having much other choice.

Reaching into the car, Lew pulled out Jason's phone. "I'm getting the police," he said, "and you had better tell them what you've been telling me."

His prisoner glared, but didn't vocally object.

"Hello?" Lew said into the phone after a moment. "Yes, I'm standing just outside Joe Mannix's office with a man who meant to kidnap Mr. Mannix or anyone else who might have shown up." He paused. "My name?" He glanced at the thug. "The identification in my pocket says I'm Jason Faulk."

xxxx

When Joe pulled up at the Royal Hotel, he paused and squinted in confusion. Claudia was not in sight. She could be hiding until she was sure Barstow's men weren't here. On the other hand, what if she had left? Or what if Barstow had already come?

"Claudia?" he called after a moment, starting to get out of the car.

A bedraggled woman appeared then, shame and guilt shining in her eyes. "Hello, Joe." She sighed, running her fingers through her hair for any remaining objects that were not supposed to be there. "I thought your secretary was coming. I really didn't want you to see me like this."

"Peggy finally got hold of me," Joe said. "I just happened to be in the neighborhood." He opened the passenger door and Claudia gave him a weak smile as she climbed in.

"Well, it _is_ nice to see you again, after so long," she said. "Although I didn't think you would feel the same way."

"I'm glad to see you're alive, at least," Joe replied, going around to the driver's side.

"I'm quite glad of that myself," Claudia said. "Getting away from that man certainly wasn't a picnic. How's Roger?"

"Probably sleeping safe and sound," Joe said.

"Your secretary said he shouldn't try to run right now," Claudia said as Joe started the engine.

"I wouldn't recommend it. Anyway, Barstow would probably just find you again." Joe headed off down the street in search of a cheaper hotel.

"Are you close to capturing him at all?" Claudia asked hopefully.

"It would help if you'd managed to give us the address of his house," Joe said.

"Oh, of course. I'm sorry. I was so busy getting away that I didn't have time to get it."

"Do you know where it was, at least?" Joe sighed.

"A large mansion up in Beverly Hills," Claudia told him.

"Most of the houses there are large mansions," Joe retorted in exasperation. "Isn't there anything else you can give me—some identifying feature of the house or yard? Something?"

"Well . . ." Claudia paused. "He has two large dogs . . . Dobermans, I believe."

"So do a lot of people up there," Joe countered.

"Then I'm afraid I can't help you. There's a smashed window, but it wouldn't be visible from the road."

Joe sighed again. "I'll find it, eventually. And probably when I do, Barstow will have moved on again. He must have more than one hideout."

"He does," Claudia nodded.

Joe pulled up in front of a cheaper, but still nice hotel. "Well, here's where we part ways for the night," he said. He reached for his wallet and took out a few bills. "This should keep you set until morning . . . and maybe get you a brush and whatever other small items you might need."

Claudia smiled, accepting the money. "Thank you, Joe." She started to get out of the car. "You'll come by in the morning, won't you?"

"At some point," Joe agreed. "I might bring Roger to stay here too. The both of you need to lay low until Barstow and his men are caught."

"Exactly what I was thinking. I hope you do bring Roger; I haven't seen him since he was hurt." Claudia shut the door and stepped back.

"He's been asking about you, too," Joe noted.

"We've been together a long time," Claudia said. Fully sobering, she said, "I can't quite imagine my life without him. I suppose that sounds unbelievable coming from someone such as I, but it's the truth. If there's one person in my life whom I truly care for other than myself, it's Roger."

"You deserve each other," Joe said. "And that isn't entirely a compliment."

Claudia gave a wry smirk. "It wouldn't be."

"I'll try to make sure I get him back to you . . . and to keep you both alive long enough to go on to your next scheme. Which had better not involve me," Joe added.

"We'll try to keep you out of it," Claudia promised. "Well, then, I'll see you and Roger tomorrow, Joe. Goodnight." She started up the walk.

Joe leaned on the steering wheel, watching until she was safely in the lobby and talking to the desk clerk. Then, shaking his head, he started the engine and prepared to leave for the police department.

The ringing of the phone put that idea on hold. Joe grabbed the receiver. He wasn't expecting a call. "Hello?"

"Joe?" It was Art. "I have that fingerprint report ready. And you might be interested in coming down to the police station for another reason, too."

"Yeah? What's that, Art?" Joe asked, tensing. Had something else gone wrong?

"A couple of officers brought in one of Barstow's goons. He was parked outside your place. And you'll never guess who caught the guy and called the police."

"Who? Art, I don't have time to play games."

He could sense Art crookedly smiling on the other end of the line. "Well, as he told the desk sergeant when he called, his identification says he's Jason Faulk. But since we now know that's impossible . . ."

"Is Lew there?" Joe interrupted.

"Yeah, he is," Art said. "He's just giving his statement to the officer in charge."

"Tell him to wait there," Joe requested. "I'll be right down."

"He was hoping you'd say that," Art said. "He wants to talk to you, Joe. That's apparently why he was out at your place to begin with."

"He doesn't . . ." Joe hesitated. "He doesn't remember yet, does he?"

"No," Art admitted quietly. "But I have this feeling that he's ready to listen."

"And I've been ready to talk for a long time," Joe declared. "Thanks, Art. I'll be there in fifteen minutes."

He hung up and started the engine, pulling out of the parking space.

xxxx

Lew was waiting in Art's office when Joe arrived. He looked up with a start when the door opened.

"Lew!" Joe exclaimed as he rushed in. "Did Art tell you?"

Lew gave him a blank look. "Tell me what?"

Art handed over a sheet of paper. "I told him he didn't need to worry about being arrested, but not why. I thought you'd like to do the honors, Joe."

Joe smiled a bit. "Yeah, I would." He turned to Lew, holding out the sheet. "I had Art run the fingerprints of the body in the morgue. This is what came back."

Lew stared blankly at the printed words. "Jason Faulk," he said, sounding far away.

"That's right, Lew. Jason Faulk is dead!" Joe regarded him with barely disguised hope. "Surely this helps."

"I know it means I must be your friend," Lew said slowly. "But I still don't remember. I drove out to your office after I got away from Barstow and his men, and I know I wanted to talk to you, yet I don't know how I knew where to go without question."

"You've driven out there a lot, Lew," Joe said quietly. But then, processing what else had been said, he started. "Wait a minute! Barstow found you?!"

"He came to Jason's house," Lew said, still feeling confused and dazed. "He wanted the gold. I'd hidden it, so as far as I know he didn't get it."

"Does he know you're not Jason?" Joe urgently demanded.

"He didn't act like he did," Lew replied. "But he probably wants me dead as Jason now."

Art stood and walked over. "You said the gold was hidden in the headboard of the master bed," he interrupted. "Can you remember if there was any other gold somewhere else? There was a large amount of gold reported missing when that armored truck was hijacked. That's probably the gold that you and Barstow and Roger Bard have all had. I'm sure it was a lot more than what would fit in a headboard."

"I honestly don't know," Lew said. "I didn't originally hide the gold in the headboard."

"Of course not," Art sighed but nodded. "Alright, Joe, you can take him."

Relieved, Joe laid a hand on Lew's shoulder. "Come on, Lew. Let's go and we'll talk."

"Go where?" Lew wondered. Suddenly he realized he didn't know anything about his home. While they had waited for Joe, Lieutenant Malcolm had shown him the personal effects that had been with the body—including some keys—but they meant nothing to him.

"For starters, let's go to my place," Joe said. As if reading Lew's mind, he continued, "You're supposed to be dead, and for your own safety, I don't think we should let the papers know otherwise just yet. So if you showed up at your house, it would be more than a little weird."

Lew gave him a flat look.

Glancing over his shoulder, Joe said, "You _will_ see that Lew's survival isn't reported, won't you, Art?"

"It won't go any farther than this police station," Art promised. "Of course, if we're unable to catch Barstow before long, we'll have to start thinking about a fake funeral and burial to keep up the illusion."

"We'll talk about that if the time comes," Joe said. "What about the goon Lew brought in? Has he said anything about where Barstow's staying?"

"Yeah, he mentioned a house, and some officers went out there, but no one was home," Art said. "And they probably won't be back."

Joe sighed. "Probably not. But maybe there'll be a record inside of another place he's got."

"They're checking for that," Art said. "Meanwhile, we've got your place under surveillance."

"Okay. Thanks, Art." Joe headed out for real, his hand still on Lew's shoulder. Normally he didn't like the police watching him or his residence, but tonight he decided to make an exception.

Lew was relieved to get out of the police station. He sighed, getting into the passenger side of Joe'e car. As Joe got in on the other side, Lew said, "This sounds ridiculous out of context, but since I must be your friend, I want you to tell me about myself. What am I like?" Shaking his head, he amended, "It sounds ridiculous in context, too."

Joe gave a weak smirk but quickly sobered. "It's not ridiculous," he said as he started the engine and pulled out. "It makes perfect sense." He stared into the distance. "You're born to be a leader—levelheaded, fair, good at getting people to follow you. Not just anyone could have kept me around Intertect so long. If anyone else had been running the place, I would have bugged out long before I did. And that goes the other way, too; if anyone else had been running Intertect, I probably really would have been fired."

"But apparently even I wasn't enough to keep you there permanently," Lew said.

Joe sighed. "No. I just wasn't happy in the environment. I needed to be out on my own."

"Do you ever regret it?"

Joe fell silent, considering his answer very carefully. "I don't regret being away from wall-to-wall computers, most of the agents, and the security cameras," he said. "What I miss the most is solving cases with you. I'm not a team player, but we worked really well together."

Lew thought about that. "I ran the agency, but somehow I had time to go running off working with the agents on their cases?"

"Oh yeah," Joe nodded. "And you handled some cases all on your own. I guess sooner or later you went on at least one case with most of the agents, but you and I were together the most. I'm not sure if that was because we worked together the best or if you were just worried about me rarely doing things by the book. A combination of both, probably. We've been friends for years, although sometimes I've wondered why we hit it off so well. You've probably wondered that yourself."

"We must be very different in personality," Lew said, taking off his glasses.

"You could say that," Joe agreed. "We had some disagreements because of my crime-solving methods. Usually, though, you always gave me the benefit of a doubt anyway. You knew I was good for it and you were willing to take chances."

"I must have trusted you a great deal," Lew remarked.

"Not unfounded, either, I might add," Joe said.

He had to admit, this conversation was strange and surreal. He was overjoyed that Lew was still alive, but it wasn't really like having him fully back until he could remember.

"Do I have any family living?"

Joe came to attention. "Yeah, your mother," he supplied. "She came out with you from New York. She was always very supportive of what you wanted to do with opening your own detective agency."

Lew rubbed his forehead, worried. "I feel terrible. I need to let her know I'm alive."

Joe sighed in sympathy. "I know, but I'm afraid you need to stay dead to everyone until the killers are caught."

"And then when I do go to her, I'll have to let her know I don't even remember her," Lew lamented.

"She'll still be overjoyed to have you back alive," Joe said quietly.

"Yes, but our memories comprise a great deal of who we are," Lew said. "Without them, we're not even the same people."

"In some ways," Joe agreed. "And for some people. But for you, Lew, you've always been such a genuine person that losing your memories can't change that. I've seen that. Your mother will, too."

Lew fell silent, considering that. "It's a nice thought," he said. "In some ways it doesn't sound logical."

Joe smiled lopsidedly. "Maybe when you get your memories back and realize you were acting the same without them, you'll think different."

"If I get them back."

Now Joe was the one falling silent. Lew was pointing out what he could not forget and what Joe was trying to forget. It was true—Lew really might never remember. And even as much as he was acting the same, the thought of him never remembering Joe or his mother or anyone else, or the times they'd shared, was very bleak.

". . . You say there were a lot of computers and security cameras at Intertect?" Lew said after a moment, wanting to change the subject as much as Joe did.

"Oh yeah." Joe smirked. "You're a real technology geek. You have to have all the latest things. You like to try to figure out how to fit them into the day-to-day lives of the agents."

Lew eyed Joe's phone. "Doesn't everyone like technology?"

"Sure, but some more than others. I can do without a lot of the fancy trappings." Joe leaned back. "I prefer a more personal, hands-on approach instead of leaving a lot up to machines."

"I suppose that makes sense," Lew acknowledged.

"Classic, hardboiled detectives were my idols," Joe said with a lopsided smile. "I guess I feel like they had the best ideas on private-eyeing and I don't like fiddling with perfection."

"If people like Sam Spade and Philip Marlowe were solving cases today, I'm sure they'd be making use of every resource available to them," Lew replied. "Including the technology."

"Imagining Sam Spade using a tablet or Philip Marlowe jamming on an iPod just doesn't fit," Joe mused. "It would take away a lot of the magic."

"It's all in the presentation," Lew said. "If the characters' personalities and the types of stories are the same, a little modern technology shouldn't take away from anything. So Marlowe loads an MP3 instead of an LP when he wants to hear music. Is that so bad?"

Joe smiled a bit, sadly. It was easy to forget that Lew really didn't remember. This was just like the types of conversations they had always had. How could he have ever thought this person was Jason Faulk?

"Well, maybe not," he said. "But you'd have to show me this Marlowe in the present-day world before I could pass judgment on the presentation."

"If anyone invents one, you'll be the first person I show it to," Lew promised. "If you don't find it first."

Joe hesitated. "So you still feel like you always have," he proclaimed. "I mean, about using all the modern technology and stuff."

Lew ran a finger over the top of Joe's dashboard. "I feel . . . a lot like it's second nature to me," he admitted. "I feel more comfortable having it around. It's driving me mad not seeing a GPS unit in this car."

Joe smiled more, not so sadly this time. "You're Lew, alright."

By now they were turning in at Paseo Verde. Spotting the police guard in his car, Joe waved as they drove past. Nothing else was unusual. He parked in his standard space and got out, looking through his keys for the one to the front door.

Lew exited as well and followed him to the door. He looked around curiously as Joe unlocked the door and they entered.

"I'm surprised you have a computer at all," he said, immediately noting the desktop model on Peggy's desk.

"Well, we have to modernize in some ways," Joe said, finding the topic still more telling. Lew had said almost the same thing the first time he had visited. Yes, Lew's basic personality was still intact. It always had been. "Peggy wanted one to help with her work and I couldn't say No."

"What about you?" Lew wondered.

"Oh, I finally broke down and got a laptop," Joe admitted. He opened the door to his office and turned on the light, revealing the small laptop open on his desk.

Lew came in and walked all around the desk, studying the laptop from every angle. "Do you use it much?"

"Now and then," Joe said vaguely. Really, he found himself using it at some point every day.

"Computers make everything easier, including detective work," Lew declared as he ran his hand over the laptop.

"You still have to do a lot of legwork," Joe replied. "Computers can't interview witnesses or persons of interest. They can't tail people. And they can't solve cases all by themselves."

"They're still incredible, time-saving tools. They weed out a lot of information that could take hours to find and sort manually," Lew said.

Joe stared at him for a moment. "Lew, are you sure you don't remember anything yet?"

Lew paused, surprise flickering in his eyes. "No, I don't," he said. "Why?"

Joe turned to go towards the stairs. "You sound just like yourself."

Lew rocked back, taking a moment to process that. "Oh." Encouraged, he followed Joe up the stairs and into the apartment.

"There's not much night left," Joe told him, "but if you want to try to get some sleep, the guestroom's right there." He pointed to it above several more stairs.

"Thank you," Lew said. "I don't know if I'll be able to go to sleep; there's so much bouncing around in my mind."

Joe nodded. He had to admit, at least to himself, that he really was beat. If he didn't get some sleep tonight, he wasn't sure how he would tackle the case in the morning. "Okay," he said. "Well, I'd like to stay up and talk with you more, Lew, but we do have several mysteries to solve and I doubt I'll be able to handle any of them if I don't get some sleep tonight."

Lew frowned, picking up on something from the tone of Joe's voice. "You didn't sleep last night?"

"No, I didn't," Joe admitted.

"That's terrible," Lew proclaimed. "Do you do that a lot?"

"Not when I can help it," Joe smiled, evading the question.

Lew gave him a look that said he didn't buy it. "Alright. If you try to sleep, I'll try to myself," he said.

"Fair enough," Joe said. "I'll see you in the morning, Lew."

"Goodnight." Lew waited until he was sure that Joe was heading up the stairs to bed before starting up himself.

Several moments later he was setting his glasses on the nightstand and sinking into the soft bed. It had been such a long, strange day. He had gone from believing himself to be a frisky criminal—and being sickened by it—to discovering that he was actually a moral and upright technology lover. And he had a close friend determined to stand by him and help him remember, if he could.

Would he ever remember? Statistics were not in his favor. Usually, when amnesia was induced by physical trauma, the victims never recovered all of their memories. He had heard of one case where a woman had lost her memory in a theatre accident and had ended up with only thirty percent of her life's memories.

That struck fear into his heart. He didn't want so much of his life to be lost to him. Or all of his life, if he never remembered anything. He might have to start completely from scratch and accept that he would never remember the past.

In one way it was a pity that the ridiculous solution of being clonked on the head a second time couldn't really bring back one's memories. At least it would be a solution. But real-life wasn't so easily solved.

Sighing, he turned out the light and rolled over, trying to attempt sleep.

xxxx

Joe didn't know what time it was when his phone suddenly blasted him out of bed. Groaning, he cracked his eyes open and reached for the phone on his nightstand. Vaguely he saw through the closed blind that it was morning.

"Yeah?" he mumbled into the phone.

"Joe!" Peggy's frantic voice immediately woke him the rest of the way.

"Peggy, what's wrong?" he demanded.

"It's Toby!" Peggy exclaimed. "His teacher called and said he never made it to school. I went there to look around and the bus driver remembers him getting off the bus with the other kids. And one of the kids remembers Toby talking to some man in the schoolyard—a very large man!"

Joe stiffened. "Peggy, are you saying you think that . . ."

"Yes!" Peggy cried. "Oh Joe, Barstow must have kidnapped Toby!"


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

Barstow had indeed kidnapped Toby. And Toby wasn't at all pleased.

"My mom's not going to let you get away with this!" he cried, struggling against the two thugs restraining him as the limousine rolled down the street. "Or Mr. Mannix either!"

Unconcerned, Barstow merely watched in wicked amusement. "No, I don't imagine they would want to," he said. "But there's very little they can do about it, unless they bring the gold Mr. Bard stole from me."

"What?!" Toby glared at him. "You're a liar! Mr. Bard doesn't steal from people."

Barstow couldn't refrain from a hearty laugh. "What sort of fables has he been telling you, Toby? That's just about all Mr. Bard_ does_ do. That, and conning, cheating, and betraying everyone he comes in contact with."

"You're taking me away!" Toby snapped. "There's no reason why I should believe you."

"Fair enough," Barstow said with an easy-going nod and spreading his hands. "I suggest you ask the man himself, if you ever see him again. He certainly won't give up his precious gold—if he knows where it is—in order to save a boy he's known only for hours. He wouldn't give up that gold to save someone he's known all his life!"

Toby glowered, stinging from the news but not wanting to admit it. "Even if he won't, Mr. Mannix and Mom will make sure he does," he said stubbornly.

"My, but you have an answer for everything, don't you?" Barstow remarked.

"Yeah," Toby spat.

Barstow smiled, unashamedly enjoying this. "You have spunk and you're not afraid to stand up to me. I like that. And I wouldn't worry too much about your safety, Toby, as you are right—Mr. Mannix and your mother will see to it that they gain possession of the gold when I ask for it in exchange for you, no matter what they have to do to obtain it. Perhaps Mr. Bard really doesn't know where it is now, but I imagine Jason Faulk does."

"I don't know Jason Faulk," Toby said.

"Well, that's no matter. I'm sure Mr. Mannix and your mother will find out, if they don't already know," Barstow said. He reached for his phone. "There's no sense wasting time; I might as well call them now."

xxxx

Joe was fully dressed and hurrying out of his room when the phone rang again. He rushed back in, grabbing up the receiver. "Peggy?" he asked, hoping against hope that he would hear that everything had been a terrible mistake and Toby was just fine.

He wouldn't. "Ah, Mr. Mannix. So we meet again, in a manner of speaking. And from your tense voice, I gather that you are already aware of your secretary's son's disappearance."

"Where is he?!" Joe snarled. "What have you done with him?!"

"Patience, Mr. Mannix. Patience. He's safe for now, but that will only last until midnight tonight, _if_ and only _if_ you bring all of my gold with you."

"We don't even know where all of it is!" Joe cried. "Unless it was just enough to fit into a dark green strongbox."

"There was plenty more than that," Barstow insisted. "I suggest you make Mr. Bard or Mr. Faulk tell you where the remainder is. I'm afraid I just can't guarantee Toby's safety beyond midnight. Not that _I _would hurt him, you understand, but the boys might become so emotional over losing our gold that they would do something terrible."

Joe clenched his teeth. "If they do, Barstow, you're going to go down right along with them," he vowed.

"Midnight, Mr. Mannix," Barstow returned, crisply. "If you are so inclined to follow my wishes, you will be waiting outside Mr. Faulk's house at 11:30 P.M. There you will be driven to our location. But if you inform the police, I will know it and I will act accordingly."

"Just how will you know it, Barstow?" Joe snapped. "Your boy's not watching me anymore. Have you bugged the office?"

"Now, what kind of person would I be to do something disdainful like that?" Barstow said smoothly. "There are other ways of learning things."

"I'll just bet there are." Joe was clutching the phone so tightly that his knuckles were white. "Let me speak to Toby."

"You don't trust that I have him?" Barstow queried.

"I don't trust that he's not hurt," Joe shot back.

Barstow's voice filled with indignation and anger. "I don't appreciate having my word doubted, Mr. Mannix."

"Right now, I don't care what you do or don't appreciate," Joe snarled. "If I don't hear that Toby's alive and alright, from Toby, there's no deal."

"Very well." Barstow sounded clipped. "Talk to Mr. Mannix, Toby."

The next voice on the line was definitely Toby's. "Mr. Mannix? I really am okay, like he said. I don't know what's going on or where we're going, but I'm not hurt."

Joe tried to relax. "That's good, Toby. For now, just do what the man says, alright? Your mom and I'll find you before long."

"Do you have to tell Mom, Mr. Mannix? She'll be freaking out. I don't like her to worry."

A fond smile tugged at Joe's features. "Sorry, Kid. She already knows you're missing and she's been 'freaking out' for a while. I'll have to tell her about this phone call."

Toby sighed. "Well, okay."

Barstow got back on the phone. "Are you satisfied now, Mr. Mannix? The boy is unharmed."

"I'll buy that, Barstow. But like I said, he'd better stay that way," Joe threatened. "I'll be waiting at 11:30."

"Excellent. Oh, and one more thing," Barstow added. "I don't like loose ends or people who steal from me. Bring Roger Bard with you when you come."

Joe stiffened. "So you can kill him?! Look, Roger's a creep, but I'm not going to hand him off to a bunch of murderers!"

"If you want Toby back unhurt, I'm afraid I'm leaving you little choice," Barstow said. "Mr. Bard must come with the gold so I can . . . pay him back, shall we say? That is non-negotiable."

Toby yelled in the background, outraged. "Hey, you can't do that!"

Unruffled, Barstow replied, "I can do a great many things that people have told me I could not. I will see you tonight, Mr. Mannix!" And with that he hung up.

Joe slammed the receiver down, swearing in his mind. What on Earth was he going to do? He couldn't in good conscience let Toby _or_ Roger get hurt. And even if he was desperate and felt like he had to do it, Roger would never agree.

"What's wrong?"

He spun around, seeing a concerned Lew in the doorway, fixing his tie even while he regarded Joe in puzzlement.

Joe debated for a moment too long on whether to even tell him or _how_ to tell him. Were Barstow's claims true? Would he be able to find out their every move, including going to the police? What should they do with that threat hanging over them? How should they handle getting Toby back?

Lew sighed. "It's no use trying to hide it."

Joe sighed too, in resignation. "Peggy's son Toby has been kidnapped," he admitted. "Barstow won't even consider bringing him back if I don't have the gold and Roger with me at 11:30 tonight."

"Roger?" Lew repeated vaguely.

"A con artist who's mixed up in this mess," Joe sighed. "That's right; I mentioned him but I didn't really get around to telling you about him. He used to be kind of a friend of mine. He stole Barstow's gold and then someone else stole it from him, only Barstow won't believe Roger doesn't know where it is.

"He doesn't take losing very well. If I go there tonight with Roger, Barstow will shoot him down in cold blood."

Lew frowned deeply. "Surely you're not planning to leave the police out of this!"

"Ordinarily I wouldn't," Joe replied. "Not when there's been a kidnapping. But Barstow claims to know every move I'm making. And until I know how he knows that, calling the police could mean curtains for Toby!"

"Maybe he doesn't know it," Lew protested. "He could be bluffing."

"I can't take that chance. Not with Toby in danger." Joe walked away from the phone, rubbing his eyes. "Do you have any idea where the rest of the gold could be?"

"Not unless it's somewhere in my . . . Jason's house," Lew said. "If you insist, we can go look, but I don't like this at all. You can't trust the word of a man who would abduct kids!"

"I know, Lew, I know," Joe retorted, once again having forgotten that Lew did not remember. "And I can't allow Roger to get killed. Of course, if he hears one breath of this, he and Claudia will probably be out of here like a flash. They won't stick around for such clear and present danger."

"Forget about Roger for now," Lew said impatiently. "Call the police. Maybe some undercover officer who looks like Roger can go along. It'll be too dark for Barstow to see that it isn't him."

Joe sighed. That was good logic. But with Barstow's threat, he still worried.

"I'll call Peggy," he said at last. "The final decision of what we do should really be up to her." He grabbed the receiver and began to dial.

He stopped when he heard the door flying open downstairs and Peggy's frantic voice. "Joe?"

Joe hurried to the stairs, Lew right behind him. "Yeah, Peggy?"

"Barstow just called me about Toby!" Peggy cried.

"Yeah, I know his terms," Joe interrupted. "He called me, too. I was just calling you to find out what you wanted to do. Lew thinks we should call the police regardless of Barstow's threats."

Peggy rocked back, really noticing the other man's presence for the first time. "Lew?" she breathed in surprised hope. "I'm sorry; I was so worried about my son I didn't see you there. Are you really . . . ?"

"I don't know," Lew interjected. "And I'm sorry; I don't remember you."

Peggy bit her lip. "Of course."

"He's Lew, alright," Joe insisted. "The fingerprint report came back; Jason Faulk is the dead man."

"Oh, I'm so glad it isn't the other way around," Peggy said fervently.

"But we can't let on the truth just yet," Joe warned. "Right now it's better to let the killers think they got Lew."

Peggy nodded. "I won't say a word."

"Where's Roger, by the way?" Joe wondered.

Peggy sighed. "Still at the apartment, asleep," she said. "I don't think he had very much sleep during the night. When I got the news about Toby, I just left him there and drove right to the school."

Joe sighed and nodded. "Then we'll have the dubious task of telling him Barstow's terms. Not that he'd agree or that we'd let him go through with it if for some weird reason he decided to be a hero." Even so, he clenched a fist, unable to help being angry again that Roger had involved them in this mess. Indirectly, his appearance had led to Toby's abduction. Perhaps he _should_ go along, to try to make up for the damage caused. Joe might insist on it if he thought he could keep Roger from getting killed. And who knew; he might still insist on it anyway. Wasn't Toby's life worth more than that miserable conman's?

Even if it was, Joe still couldn't in good conscience deliberately lead Roger to his death. He would never be able to live with himself. He had to think of some way to keep both Roger and Toby alive.

"Joe?" Peggy looked at him in concern. "What are you thinking?"

Not wanting to tell her his dark thoughts, Joe shook his head. "Nothing, Peggy."

"Well . . ." Peggy hesitated. "I don't know what to think about calling the police. I know we should, but when Toby's life is in danger and Barstow might know about the call . . ."

"Maybe he wouldn't," Joe mused. "He doesn't know Lew is still alive. If he's really following my every move, he would know Lew is alive and here. And he doesn't."

Peggy's eyes widened. "Joe, you're right."

"So call the police, for Heaven's sake!" Lew exclaimed.

"I think we will," Joe said. He headed for the door. "But we'll still need to tell old Roger about this. He'll probably be waking up soon and wondering why no one's home."

"Do you think he might go outside?" Peggy worried.

"I doubt it," Joe said. "But he might try calling. I'd rather we told him about this in person."

"I could talk to him about it while the two of you talk to the police," Lew offered.

Joe sighed. "Thanks, Lew, but I think it should be me. He doesn't know you."

Peggy felt like she was screaming inside. Her son had been kidnapped and they all had to stand around talking! She herself had been targeted many times on Joe's cases, but up to now, Toby had been safe. This was too horrible.

She drew a shaking breath, trying to keep herself under control. "Alright," she said at last. "Toby should be safe for now. Let's go back to my apartment. I'll call the police from there and you can talk to Roger while we wait."

"If you drop me off at Jason's house, I'll start looking for the rest of the gold," Lew suggested.

"Good idea," Joe declared. "Okay, we'll do that."

They headed outside and to the cars. Nearby, the police guard observed from his car.

"We could tell him, Joe," Peggy pointed out. "Then he could call and maybe have someone waiting to talk to us at the apartment."

Joe sighed. "We could, but what if Barstow has a police radio and would tune in when the detective calls headquarters?"

A sick look spread over Peggy's face. "You're right."

Joe gave her a sympathetic look. "It'll just be a few minutes," he said. "Since I'll need to drop Lew off, you'll probably get there first. You could go ahead and call the police then."

Peggy nodded. "Alright." She hurried to her blue compact car and got in, starting the engine.

Joe watched her as he walked back to his dark green convertible. He hoped they were making the right decision.

"Calling the police is the best thing," Lew said as they entered the car. "We're not equipped to handle kidnapping."

Joe shook his head, gazing off in the distance. "Yeah, but if Barstow finds out . . ."

"Unless he has a plant in the police department, he shouldn't," Lew said. "And we have no evidence that he does."

That was true. But Joe was still worried.

"We should still be as careful as we can," he said. Getting back out of the car, he walked to Peggy's car and looked in. "When you call, ask for Lieutenant Malcolm or Lieutenant Tobias," he advised. "Someone we know we can trust."

Peggy looked up in surprise. "But Joe, they're from Homicide!"

"There _is_ a murder mixed up in this case, you know," Joe said. "Jason Faulk's. And someone tried to kill Lew. Barstow wants the gold that Faulk had, so that connects things right there."

Peggy considered that and nodded. "Alright." Worried, she asked, "Do you think Barstow has a man in the department?"

"I'm not willing to take the chance that he doesn't," Joe replied.

Peggy certainly wasn't, either. "I just hope Art or Adam is available," she said quietly.

"If they're not, you know who else we trust there," Joe said. He turned, going back to his car.

Peggy stared after him, a new flurry of frantic thoughts dancing through her mind. So many things could go wrong. And with Toby's life at stake, that was completely unacceptable. How could they know they were doing the right thing?

Maybe she shouldn't have decided to call the police. But if she didn't, could she and Joe and Lew handle this all on their own? Lew didn't even remember them! And he couldn't call on reinforcements from Intertect. Without the police, it really would be just the three of them.

She said a desperate prayer for Toby's safety, asking that Toby's deceased father watch over him until they could find him. She knew he would if he could. And surely there wouldn't be any missions on the other side more important than looking after their son.

"I wish you were here," she whispered as she pulled out of the parking lot. "I don't know how to handle this without you."

But of course, somehow she would. There was no other choice. And Joe was there for her, as he always had been since she had started working for him years earlier. He wouldn't rest until Toby was back with them. That was certainly something to find comforting.

She watched Joe's car until he turned off to take Lew to Jason's. Then, sighing, she continued to her apartment.

xxxx

Roger paced the floor, restless and disturbed at the conclusion of Joe's tale. "I should have known Barstow might go after Toby," he said. "That sort of barbaric behavior is just like him."

"Then maybe you should have warned us," Joe retorted. "Not everyone stoops to taking kids."

"I should have, agreed. But I didn't stop to think about it any more than you probably did," Roger shot back.

Peggy stared at the floor. Roger was right; to all of them it had been an outside possibility. She had considered it, but not nearly as strongly as she should have. If she had driven Toby to school, or had even kept him out of school today, it might not have happened.

Roger continued, "I'm sorry about the boy, but what exactly does this mean for me? You say Barstow won't accept anything but me coming along."

"He won't," Joe said with an edge in his voice. "Hopefully the police will have an undercover agent that can masquerade as you. I wasn't planning that you'd have to offer your services, Roger," he added dryly. "Even if I tried to force it on you, you'd find some way to weasel out of it and leave us worse off than we were."

"Then I trust I am free to go to Claudia?" Roger asked.

"If you want to take a cab," Joe said. "Otherwise, just wait until we're done with the police."

Peggy looked down, wringing her hands. "Toby really liked you, you know," she said quietly, bitterly.

Roger paused and looked to her. "Well, I liked him too, but I don't see what that has to do with it. I deeply regret that Barstow has taken him."

"Yeah, and that's all you're doing," Joe said. "Deeply regretting it."

"I don't think I'm understanding very well," Roger said. "Didn't you just get through saying that you weren't planning to coerce me into accompanying you?"

"That's right." Joe stood. "But that doesn't mean you couldn't show a little more of this 'deep regret'. I guess that would be beyond your abilities, though, wouldn't it, Roger?"

Roger stopped and blinked, rapidly. "Joe, I . . ."

"It's _your_ fault this whole thing happened!" Joe suddenly exclaimed, unable to hold back any longer. "You gave them my name and had them dump you at my place. Now that's caused Barstow to get Peggy's name and know about Toby. He wouldn't have taken Toby if it wasn't for you!"

Peggy looked up with a start. "Joe!" She couldn't deny that she had had a few similar thoughts, but she hadn't expected this outburst. It worried her to see Joe this angry.

Roger looked taken aback. "Honestly, I had no idea something like this would happen," he protested.

"But would it have stopped you if you _had_ known?" Joe retorted. "You don't care about people, Roger, unless you can use them for one thing or another. Once they're no good to you any more, you discard them and betray them and think that because they're really better people than you, they'll keep helping you when you need it, no matter what!"

"Joe, I said that I hadn't really thought you would help this time!" Roger cried. "What could I do? Claudia and I were in trouble and I thought of you. You were the only one we could turn to!"

"You should've thought of me before you started milking our friendship for everything you could get," Joe snarled. "That isn't what friendship is, Roger! I don't think you'd know what friendship is if came up and slugged you in the face. Which is what I feel like doing right now."

Peggy got up now. "Joe, stop," she pleaded, reaching for his arm. "He isn't worth it."

Roger had tensed for the possible attack, his blue eyes wide and concerned. But as the fire seemed to leave and Joe slowly abandoned his furious stance, Roger began to relax.

Joe breathed heavily, still angry, but trying to calm himself. "Peggy's right, Roger," he said at last. "You're not worth it." He gestured to the phone. "Go ahead and call yourself a cab. Get out of here and go be with Claudia. She really loves you. At least as much as one con artist can love another con artist."

Too shaken to respond, Roger nodded and dove for the phone.

xxxx

The rest of the day was a whirlwind of confusion. The police talked with Joe and Peggy at length about Barstow, Roger, the gold, and the rest of the mess. After a while two FBI agents arrived as well and they began formulating a plan.

Joe would deliver the gold, as stipulated. An agent resembling Roger would go with him and hopefully fool Barstow long enough for the law to surround and get the drop on him and his men once Toby was safe.

Lew had been desperately searching Jason's house for the rest of the gold for hours. Unable to find it or any clues to its location, he was ready to give up in despair.

It was definitely a concern in the workings of the plan. If the FBI knew how much gold Barstow was talking about, they might be able to get permission to provide enough to pass for the rest of the lot. Without any time to guess, they determined to assume that it was the gold from the hijacked van that was being talked about and studied the gold from the green strongbox to get a rough idea of how much more to ask for.

"That was quite a shipment that was stolen," one agent told Joe. "I don't know if we can get permission to bring in enough to go along with what's here."

"Well, try! Try!" Joe exclaimed. "A child's life is at stake. That has to be worth more than a pile of gold, even one this big."

The agent nodded and picked up the phone.

In a desperate attempt to calm her nerves, Peggy was keeping coffee hot for all of the agents trouping in and out of the apartment. It wasn't much, she told herself, but at least it was something to do. She had to keep busy doing _something. _She also fixed lunch and later, dinner.

Joe entered the kitchen while the FBI agent called about the gold. "Hey," he said quietly. "It's going to be alright, Peggy. We're going to get Toby back."

Peggy looked to him, unable to smile. "And what if we can't?" she said in anguish.

Joe didn't know what to say. They both knew it _was_ a possibility—a horrible, grim, sickening possibility.

He went to Peggy, drawing an arm around her shoulders. Closing her eyes, she leaned into him, trying to draw from him the comfort that she could not seem to find elsewhere.

"Hey," he said at last, "I'm sorry about that scene with Roger. That wasn't what you needed to hear, what with everything else you have to think about right now."

Peggy sighed and shook her head. "You only said what you've probably been wanting to say for a long time," she said. "And what I've been thinking." With a weak smirk, she added, "It felt kind of good to hear it come out at last."

"Of course, knowing Roger, it probably went in one ear and out the other," Joe sighed. "He and Claudia are probably miles away by now."

"And good riddance," Peggy declared. Sarcastically she added, "I hope they're very happy making trouble for someone else instead of us."

"I should've turned them over to the police after that fiasco with the old money," Joe berated. "I don't know why I didn't."

Peggy sighed but smiled. "Because you're too soft-hearted for your own good," she declared.

Joe nodded. "I guess I felt kind of sorry for Roger once I knew that it was his partners who betrayed him, instead of the other way around. And he just seemed to have such a warped idea of what friendship was that he seemed to think I'd always be around to pick up the pieces, no matter what he'd done to me. It was like he honestly couldn't comprehend that he'd done something that should break up a friendship. That he was downright _incapable_ of comprehending it. It really _was_ hard to stay mad at him back then.

"But this time when he came around, first there was the incident with him and Lew, and that was bad enough. Still, I tried to let it go and hope that maybe he really wouldn't have left if he'd known Lew was hurt. But now that Barstow's got Toby . . ." Joe shook his head. "I don't know if I can let this go. Maybe if Roger had been a little more upset. . . ."

Peggy looked weary and sad. "He's not worth wasting angry energy on. Let's forget about him and just think about getting Toby back. It's not long now until we need to meet Barstow."

"And you should think about getting something to eat," Joe said, steering her towards the table. "There's still plenty of sandwiches."

"I don't think I can eat, Joe," Peggy protested. "Maybe after Toby's safe."

"You'll need your strength while we're trying to rescue him," Joe replied. He eased Peggy into a chair and put a sandwich in front of her.

Finally Peggy managed a weak smile. Mostly to appease Joe, she took a small bite. But then she suddenly realized she was hungry. She kept on taking bites.

Joe leaned back, relieved. That had been easy enough.

It was getting Toby back that would be more difficult.

And trying to think what to say to Peggy if they failed.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

Claudia had been relieved when Roger had come to the hotel and found her suite. _"Oh Roger!"_ she had exclaimed upon opening the door. She had immediately ran and embraced him and he had returned it, kissing her and holding her close.

He was truly glad that she was safe and that they were back together. But it hadn't taken Claudia long to see that something was troubling him. He was restless, sitting down for a moment and then leaping up again, beginning to pace. Claudia was both worried and dizzy.

"Roger, darling, won't you please tell me what the trouble is?" she exclaimed at last.

Roger sighed, pulling on his ear. "That's just it, Claudia—I'm not entirely certain _what_ the trouble is." He stuffed his hands in his pockets and started to pace again. "I suppose it's in large part what Mannix said to me a little while ago, but I really don't think that's the entire problem."

"Well, whatever did he say?" Claudia said, throwing up her hands in a bit of exasperated confusion.

"He really quite let me have it," Roger admitted. "I had expected something like that to come when I was first taken to him, but apparently he wasn't angry enough then to rake me over the coals, shall we say."

Claudia approached him. "And what made him become that angry?" she asked, quieter and kinder.

"I told you that Mrs. Fair's son was kidnapped by Barstow," Roger said. "Well, Barstow wanted me to go with Joe to make the payoff, of course planning to murder me if I went."

Claudia stared at Roger in disbelief. "Surely Joe didn't expect you to do it!"

"No; he's going with some special agent or something," said Roger. "But he felt I didn't show enough concern and remorse over what happened. He felt that it was nothing to me, even though we were in large part responsible for the abduction."

Claudia came closer, draping her arms around his neck. "But it isn't nothing to you, is it?"

Roger held her close. "I know we've certainly done every shameful thing in the book to stay alive and free and wealthy. Most of it I haven't regretted that much. But I do regret bringing any possible harm to that child. That was one thing we tried to never do—harm children."

Claudia ran a hand down his cheek. "But it's not us doing this. It's Barstow."

"Oh Claudia!" Roger pulled away. "Barstow wouldn't know the first bloody thing about Toby's existence if we hadn't come back into Joe's life. That was what Joe was furious about, and really, he has a right to be. We've made quite a shambles of it this time." Again he stuck his hands into his pockets as he turned and glared out the window.

Claudia came up behind him and gently rubbed at his shoulders, not wanting to hurt any of the injuries from the beating. "What do you want to do?"

"I suppose there's really nothing we can do," Roger sighed. "They already have their plans set and are going to make the payoff tonight at 11:30. There's no need for us to interfere. We could pack our things and be off and no one would be the wiser."

Claudia rested her cheek against his shoulder. "But you don't want to do that, do you?"

Roger stared into the distance. "I'd like to sort of sneak along behind them and be around in case I'm needed," he said. "I don't want to put you in any danger."

"Roger." Claudia came around to face him, determination clearly showing in her eyes and voice. "If that is what you want to do, we will. Both of us. I won't abandon you."

Roger looked at her with worry shining in his eyes. "But what if . . ."

"Now, if we're careful, nothing should happen," Claudia said firmly. "We probably won't even be needed. But for your peace of mind, we will do it."

"For _my_ peace of mind?" Roger repeated. "Claudia, are you saying you could so easily live with yourself if something were to go wrong without us being there to try to prevent it?"

Claudia sighed. "No." She turned, walking slowly through the room. "I certainly don't want anything to happen to that boy either. But I'm sure the law enforcement officers and Joe can handle it. Roger, you're already hurt!" She spun back around. "I don't want to see anything worse happen to you!" Her shoulders slumped and she clenched a fist. "But if something went wrong because we weren't there, you wouldn't get over it and that would be haunting in and of itself. And . . ." She looked at him in resignation. "I would also wonder if we possibly could have turned the tide in the boy's favor, had we been there."

"Alright then." Roger came and embraced her again. "We'll go. And after it's all over, we'll say our apologies and goodbyes to Joe and the Fairs and depart."

Claudia smiled, letting him hold her. "And with any luck, we won't be back here again."

"Indeed." Roger kissed her softly and she settled deeper into his embrace, resting a hand on his shoulder.

"You know," he mused, "we ought to get married one of these days."

That perked her up. "Why, Roger," she said in partial incredulity, "is that a proposal?"

He smiled. "Perhaps."

She smiled too. "Well," she said, kissing him on the jaw, "_perhaps_ I will accept."

xxxx

Everyone was tense at 11:30 that night. As instructed, Joe would leave with the gold and the undercover agent when Barstow's man arrived. Joe had a tracking device sewn into his blazer so that other agents could follow his progress without being seen.

"Lew, if you just remembered, you'd be proud," Joe declared.

"Right now I'm too worried to be proud," Lew replied. "Just be careful."

"I'll do my best," Joe smiled. "Take care of Peggy."

Peggy looked worriedly at Joe. "I wish I could go along," she berated. "Something might go wrong. I want to make sure Toby gets out of the fray."

"Barstow was very clear on only me and 'Roger' showing up," Joe said. "You two can follow the other agents there, but you'll have to stay in the background."

"I promise I'll keep Mrs. Fair safe, whatever we do," Lew said.

A bit of sadness flickered in Peggy's eyes. Lew had been close enough to them that they had all been on a first-name basis. Now he just didn't remember. And even though Joe was happy that Lew's basic personality had not changed, Peggy knew it deeply pained him that they were both strangers to Lew.

Joe smiled, clapping Lew on the arm. "I know you will. Well, Barstow's man is probably pulling up, so I'd better get going. Remember to keep away from the windows until we're gone," he cautioned. "I'll have to say that I beat you—or rather, Faulk—up to get the gold."

"Right," Lew nodded.

With that, Joe hurried outside and met with the undercover agent on the porch. Together they went down to stay with the gold by the curb and wait for their ride.

It wasn't long in coming. Two thugs pulled up within five minutes. They got out, frisking both Joe and the agent before ordering them to load the gold and then get into the limousine. To Joe's relief, neither had appeared to notice the tiny transmitter in the lining of his blazer. Within five more minutes, they were off.

"Alright," an FBI agent in the house noted. "He's being tracked; everything is working perfectly. We're off." He hurried outside through a side door to meet with his partner in their car.

Peggy looked to Lew. "Well?" she asked. "Are we going?"

Lew looked back. He had the feeling that even if he refused, she would go off on her own following the FBI agents anyway. And he was worried about Joe, and Toby, even though he didn't remember them.

"Let's go," he agreed.

Peggy smiled in triumph.

xxxx

The ride was quiet and tense. Joe determined it was better not to engage the thugs in conversation, so instead he paid attention to where they were going. It wasn't long before he determined they were approaching the warehouse district.

For some reason, it didn't entirely surprise him when they stopped at Wharf 33. Seeing Barstow stepping out of the newly rebuilt warehouse, in the company of two thugs and Toby, he quickly opened the door.

"Get out," he said gruffly to the agent, keeping his gun at the man's back. Roger would never come willingly, so this was how they were trying to explain how Joe had managed to get him here. Joe had kept a gun on him all the way there, explaining to the thugs that if he didn't, "Roger" would even leap out of the car while it was moving to get away. Knowing Roger's reputation, they had bought it.

"Are you sure we can't reconsider this?" the agent said in what was a good imitation of Roger's British voice.

"No way," Joe replied. "Go on."

The agent stumbled out, followed by Joe. Toby perked up, but looked worried. "Mr. Mannix, what are you doing?!" he cried.

"Don't worry, Toby," Joe told him. "I'm getting you out of this no matter what."

"But this man's gonna kill him!" Toby wailed.

Joe's heart twisted. This was going to make him look bad in Toby's eyes for a few minutes, but it couldn't be helped. "He got you into this mess," he growled. "Now he's going to get you out."

Toby stared in disbelief, tears pricking his eyes. "Mr. Mannix, you can't! Even to save me, it's wrong!"

Barstow laid a hand on Toby's shoulder and pressed harshly. "Now, Mr. Mannix has everything under control," he purred. "Although I must say, Sir, I wasn't entirely expecting you to be so cold."

"Your gold's here in the car with your men," Joe snapped.

"He's right," one of the thugs said, holding up a bar and a handful of coins. "It looks like it's all here."

"Bring it out and let me see," Barstow instructed.

Together the lackeys unloaded the gold, bringing it to Barstow's feet. He bent down, pawing through the bag and looking in the strongbox. "Hmm," he mused.

Joe tensed. Would he notice something was different?

At last Barstow straightened with a thoughtful nod. "Everything seems to be in order. Tell me, how did you get it away from Mr. Faulk?"

"I had to beat him up," Joe said impatiently. "Come on, you have your gold and you have Roger. Let Toby go!"

"In a moment." Barstow suddenly pulled a gun, firing at the agent without warning. He collapsed, crimson spreading across his shirt from the fake blood pack under his clothing.

Toby screamed, turning away and covering his eyes.

Smiling in satisfaction, Barstow replaced the gun. "There. Now my business is all taken care of. The boy may go."

Joe started forward, reaching for Toby's arm. "Come on, Toby," he said. "I know this looks bad, but everything's going to be okay now."

"No!" Toby wailed. "You just let Mr. Bard die! Even if he stole things like this guy said, it wasn't right! Mom never would've wanted you to do that!" He took off running.

Alarmed, Joe chased after him. "Toby, get back here!" he yelled. He hoped it wouldn't take long for Toby to feel better once he knew the truth. It broke his heart that he couldn't simply tell Toby now. Of course there was no way.

Barstow watched the chase, unconcerned. He had other men stationed around the warehouse, including a sniper on the roof. His plan was to make sure that Mannix never left here alive. And he rather doubted it would be safe to allow the boy to live, although he had to admit he found that regrettable.

A cruel smile came over his features as he watched the sniper move into position. Mr. Mannix had caught up to Toby and was desperately trying to hold onto the boy. And he had just entered firing range.

The agent on the ground looked up in alarmed concern. He was not close enough to protect Mannix from the sniper's bullet. He opened his mouth to cry a warning.

Nearby, the occupants of another car had also noticed. Peggy gasped in horror, her hands over her mouth. Opening her door, she flew out with a cry. "Joe! Toby!"

Joe started and turned. At the same moment, a burst of manufactured thunder rang through the night. The sniper went limp and fell over the side.

Lew was standing outside the car, a smoking gun in hand. Joe looked to him in grateful amazement. Lew looked back, worry and concern dominant in his eyes. "Joe . . ."

But there was no time to finish his sentence. Another thug had come up during the commotion and now had hold of Toby. With his other hand, he held a gun to the boy's head.

"Alright," he growled. "So you brought reinforcements and even used a government agent to play Bard, expressly going against Mr. Barstow's wishes. Now you're all going to pay."

Peggy ran forward in anguish. "No!" she screamed, utterly agonized. "He's just a boy! What kind of monsters are you?! _Please, _have mercy on him! You have your gold. Isn't that the most important thing?!"

Barstow's lips were pressed in a thin line. "Under the circumstances, my dear, _no._ No doubt there are other government agents surrounding us who will impede our flight to freedom. We must have insurance. And the most logical choice is this boy."

Toby looked to Peggy, the fear in his eyes. "Mom . . ."

Joe's stomach was in knots. Everything they had tried to prevent had failed. With the gun on Toby, none of them could make a move. They needed a miracle.

And suddenly, they had one.

Another gun clicked, directly behind Barstow. The large man stiffened.

"Alright," came a smooth British voice. "Now I have a pistol pointed at the head of your dear employer. If his miserable life means anything to you, you will release the boy and allow him and his friends to leave, or I will very calmly put a bullet in Mr. Barstow's brain."

Barstow went stiff. "Bard, what are you doing?!"

"Being rather nasty to you, I'm afraid," Roger smiled. "But then I do believe you deserve it. Come, come, now, what will it be?"

Barstow clenched his fists. "Let the boy go," he relented.

The thug complied. Toby ran to Peggy, hugging her around the waist. "Mom!"

Peggy smiled and laughed in relieved joy, holding Toby close. "Toby!"

Now free to move, the police and the FBI swooped in, rounding up the thugs and snapping handcuffs on them.

Joe started to relax, but his mind was reeling. How? Why? What in the world was Roger doing here? What could have possibly got him out here?

Barstow was not about to go as quietly as his men. As Roger led him along, the gun still at his head, Barstow suddenly whirled, his own gun in hand. Shocked, Roger had no chance to do anything before Barstow abruptly and coldly shot him point-blank in the chest.

Everyone turned to look, shocked and stunned and in disbelief. Roger fell back, clutching the wound as blood ran over his fingers. Somewhere nearby, a woman screamed.

Joe ran forward, furiously wrenching the gun out of Barstow's hand. "What do you think you're doing?!" he snarled. "If he dies, that's cold-blooded murder!"

Barstow shrugged, allowing Joe to take him. "Now I have finally settled my score," he replied. He watched in relish as Roger collapsed to the dock. "You denied that to me, Mr. Mannix. I should have known you would never bring Mr. Bard here for me to kill. Fortunately for me, Mr. Bard seems to have had a very strange and surprising burst of altruism."

Claudia ran out and fell to her knees beside Roger, desperately prying his hand away from the wound and pressing a cloth over it. "Roger! Roger, no. Roger, please, speak to me. Stay with me!"

Roger grimaced in pain. "I underestimated him," he choked. "I didn't actually believe he would shoot me if I had a gun . . ."

Toby ran over too, tears pricking his eyes. "Mr. Bard!" He dropped down on Roger's other side.

"Here now." Roger reached out with his clean hand, resting it on Toby's arm. "I did you a disservice, Toby. I just . . ." He coughed again. "I just had to correct it."

"No!" Toby wailed. "It wasn't your fault, Mr. Bard."

"Ah, it was, in a way." Roger fell silent a moment, his breathing pained and labored. At last he looked to Toby again. "I feel I should tell you, I . . . I'm really not the way I presented myself to you yesterday. I'm a thief and a con artist."

Toby shook his head. That didn't matter to him now. "And you saved my life," he sobbed. "Maybe all of us."

"Odd," Roger remarked. "I didn't think I had that much goodness in me."

Peggy ran over with Lew in tow. "I've just called for an ambulance," she said breathlessly.

Claudia was still frantically working with the wound, but not having much success. "He's losing too much blood," she berated. "Oh Roger!" She bent over him. From his clouded eyes, she could see that she was losing him.

He looked up at her, sincere sadness and regret on his features. "Claudia, I . . . I'm so sorry. I didn't mean for it to end this way. I never meant . . ."

"Roger, don't try to talk," Claudia pleaded. "Save your strength. The ambulance will be here soon."

Roger gave her a wan smile. "But will I?" His eyes closed.

Claudia went stiff. "Roger?! Roger!" Desperately she searched for signs of life. Finding none, she abandoned her work with the wound and struggled to deliver artificial respiration.

Peggy went to stand by a reeling Joe. "Joe, this is horrible," she said softly.

Joe could only give a dazed nod. "I never thought . . ."

"None of us thought." Peggy laid a hand on Joe's shoulder and stepped forward, going to her son.

Toby looked up at Peggy with woebegone eyes. "Mom . . . why did he do this? Why?!"

Peggy's heart twisted. Kneeling in front of her son, she pulled him close. "I guess because he was a better person than any of us gave him credit for, including himself," she said.

Toby hugged her tightly. "I didn't want him to die," he sobbed. "I didn't want anyone to die!"

"I know, Toby." Peggy blinked back a few tears of her own.

When the ambulance sirens finally wailed several minutes later, Claudia had given up all hope of Roger's survival. Her heartbroken sobs were the only other sound.

xxxx

It seemed like they had been at the hospital for hours. Unable to concentrate on anything, Claudia was simply sitting with her hands clasped in her lap, staring off at nothing. Although Peggy tried more than once to engage her in conversation, she barely responded.

Joe paced the floor, rubbing the back of his neck. The paramedics had revived Roger, but as far as any of them knew, his condition was still critical. Hours later, he was still in surgery.

He looked to Toby, who had insisted on coming and was sitting forlornly by Peggy. "Hey," he said quietly. "I'm sorry you had to think that I was actually going to let Barstow kill Roger. That was unfair and cruel to you, but there just wasn't any other way."

"That's okay, Mr. Mannix," Toby replied sadly. "I should have known something was up. You'd never do something like that. But now Mr. Barstow shot the real Mr. Bard anyway."

Peggy drew an arm around Toby's shoulders, also looking sad. She wasn't sure what to say; none of them were. Roger might not survive, so how could she tell Toby everything would be alright?

Joe was of the same mind. He sighed to himself, looking away.

Lew had lingered back and watched, feeling helpless. "Joe," he finally said, stepping forward. "I'm sorry."

Joe paused and looked to him. "You? Lew, you saved my life," he exclaimed. "In fact, I never had the chance to thank you for that."

"You don't have to thank me, Joe." Lew sighed, taking off his glasses and rubbing his temples. "Really, there's something I need to tell you, but with what happened to Mr. Bard, it didn't seem the time or place."

Joe blinked but then froze, remembering the look they had exchanged after Lew had shot the sniper. "Lew . . ." His eyes widened and he started to smile. "You remember, don't you?"

Lew nodded. "Everything. I don't know; I saw that sniper going after you and suddenly it all came back. You weren't a stranger who'd been kind to me—you were Joe, my friend and former employee."

Joe smiled more, gripping Lew's upper arms. "Then I guess for once I'm glad a sniper was aiming at me. Lew . . . welcome back."

Lew smiled too, but looked like he felt awkward. "I just wish I hadn't been away in the first place," he said. "You had so much on your mind with Mr. Bard in town. Then I was hurt and you were grieving when you thought I was dead and worrying when you realized I was alive but didn't remember anything. That put a lot of extra pressure on you."

"It wasn't your fault, Lew," Joe said quietly. "But hey, do you remember what happened to you that night or are those memories still gone?"

"I remember," Lew asserted. "Vaguely. I was hurt in the car crash and I got out and wandered around looking for help. I bumped into Mr. Bard, but I was so out of it I couldn't even say anything to him.

"Then I tripped over Faulk's body. I don't know; I guess being jarred again like that was what caused it. When I pushed myself up, I was convinced that I was Faulk and the body was, well, Lew Wickersham. Not even seeing my I.D. could convince me otherwise. I thought there'd been a mistake."

"So _you_ switched the I.D.s?" Joe said in surprise.

"Yes, and everything else in our pockets. Then I didn't remember it later." Lew sighed. "I must have wandered around hurt for hours before I found that hotel."

Joe shook his head. "What in the world was Faulk even doing out there?"

"I was following him right before the crash," Lew mused. "He must have seen it and maybe thought that I was dead."

"And even if you weren't, he was just going to leave you there," Joe said in disgust.

Lew nodded. "I was a threat to him. When he saw the crash, he must have figured it was made to order. I just wonder if he ever realized that Barstow's men had been confused thinking I had the gold when it was him all along. If they'd known the truth, it would have been him in that car crash."

"Well, they ended up killing him anyway," Joe remarked. "And tomorrow morning they'll learn the truth about you on the news."

"It'll be good to get back to Intertect and let everyone know I'm alright," Lew said with a smile. "But first of all I need to let my mother know."

"You sure do," Joe said. "Are you going to call her or just show up?"

"It'd be better to just go to her house," Lew said. "Calling is so impersonal and she could always think it was someone playing a cruel trick."

Joe nodded. "Very true." He hesitated. "If you want to go now, Lew, that's fine. You don't have to hang around here."

"No, I'll stay," Lew replied. If there was no news by morning, he decided, then he would go to his mother. She would be asleep now, he supposed, but he didn't want her to have to go through any more waking hours thinking he was dead.

"Thanks," Joe said quietly, grateful for the support.

Lew nodded.

Joe sighed. "I guess part of me doesn't even know what to think," he confessed. "About Roger, I mean. You remember all the stuff I told you about him in the past."

"Oh yes," Lew confirmed. "He was a character."

"And still has been." Joe rubbed the back of his neck. "I haven't really considered him a friend any longer or wanted anything to do with him. And I thought he acted so nonchalant about Toby being kidnapped. Then he goes and does this and part of me feels bad for yelling at him and I wonder what I'll think if he doesn't make it."

Lew considered that. "I suppose you wouldn't be able to help feeling guilty if he doesn't make it," he said kindly. "But you shouldn't have to. Maybe it was even yelling at him that made him decide to try to help."

"I guess," Joe said.

"And you should remember that just because he did this doesn't mean he'll be different in every way or even want to be," Lew added. "More than likely, he'll be the same con artist he always was, with possibly just a little more consideration for you."

"I've thought of that too," Joe acknowledged. "I can't imagine he'll change, either, but I sure wasn't expecting this, so old Roger may have a few more surprises in store. I just hope surviving is one of them," he muttered.

"I wouldn't put it past him yet," Lew said. "He's a crafty one."

Joe had to smirk. "He is that," he said. "He'd cheat the Grim Reaper himself if he could get away with it."

Lew chuckled.

"Oh, say, Lew," Joe remembered, "you didn't suspect anyone at Intertect of being involved with Faulk, did you?"

Lew blinked in surprise. "No, I didn't. Why?"

"Well, with all of those agents still at your beck and call, I guess I wondered why you left that post-mortem letter to me instead of one of them," Joe said.

Again Lew looked surprised. But that look was swiftly replaced by knowing amusement. "I knew you'd find that if something happened to me," he said. "Honestly, Joe, those agents are excellent detectives, but I don't fraternize with them. You were a special case."

"Because we knew each other almost from the beginning of Intertect?" Joe said.

"That, and your unorthodox methods required special attention," Lew said with a bit of a stern look.

Joe held up his hands. "I plead guilty."

At that moment the doctor entered the waiting room. "Ms. Redstone?" he asked.

Claudia leaped to her feet, immediately out of her daze. "Yes?"

The doctor smiled kindly and in relief. "Your Mr. Bard is determined to live," he said. "There were two close calls on the operating table, but we finally got the bullet out and gave him a transfusion, and it looks like he's going to make it."

Toby, who had been dozing off and on, perked up. "That's great!" he cheered.

Claudia clapped her hands in joy. "Oh, thank God!" She stepped forward. "You'll let me see him, won't you? Please—he doesn't have any family. I'm the closest thing to it." Remembering their earlier conversation, she ventured, "We're going to be married."

The doctor nodded in approval. "That's good enough for me. I've never been too strict on that 'family only' rule anyway. After all . . ." He smiled at the gathered group. "Families come in many forms."

Joe looked thoughtful. "I'll go along with that." Looking to Claudia, he said, "Tell Roger that we're glad he's going to be alright."

Claudia smiled. "I will. And you're all invited to the wedding, of course. You too, Doctor."

The doctor looked pleased. "I'd be honored."

When they had disappeared down the hall, Joe looked to Lew and Peggy. "Roger and Claudia," he mused. "I guess I should've expected it. You know, I don't think I've ever been to a wedding between two criminals before. I wonder what it'll be like."

Peggy beamed as she got up. "It'll be just like any other wedding between two people who honestly love each other," she said.

"I suppose. And Peggy, there's one more piece of good news."

Peggy looked over. "What's that, Joe?"

Joe smiled, laying a hand on Lew's shoulder. "Lew remembers."

Lew smiled too. "Hello, Peggy, Toby."

Peggy gasped in delighted amazement. "Oh Lew!" She and Toby hurried over. "How?"

"It seems it was the shock of seeing me in life-threatening danger that did it," Joe said.

"Something I've seen more times than I care to count," Lew sighed. "But it usually doesn't happen when I've got amnesia!"

Toby hugged him. It had already seemed the most amazing thing that could be when Peggy had told him on the way to the hospital that "Jason Faulk" was really Lew, alive but with memory loss. Now this was far more incredible. "I'm really glad you're okay now, Mr. Wickersham!" he declared.

Lew returned the gesture. "So am I."

"This is wonderful!" Peggy exclaimed. "Toby's safe, you remember, Roger's going to live, he and Claudia are getting married . . ."

"Yes, things seem to have fallen into place real nicely for a change," Joe declared. And it was a breath of fresh air after the discouraging case he had handled right before this.

"Yeah, and it's super!" Toby exclaimed.

"It sure is," Joe smiled.

"Say, Lew," he said, "what really was it that you called me about a couple of days before all of this madness started?"

"Oh, that." Lew rubbed his forehead. "I was going to tell you about Faulk. I knew he was going to try to ruin me and I wanted to let you know to be on guard. He might have gone after you and Peggy too."

Joe sighed. "I should have returned your call, Lew. I was swamped with a big case, but I should have taken the time anyway. Who knows what might have gone different if I had."

Lew looked at him. "It's not like you to dwell on the past, Joe. Let's just forget about that and move forward. Anyway, it probably wouldn't have made that much difference, since Barstow's men got into the act."

"Yeah, you're probably right," Joe nodded. "But I wish I'd taken the time anyway."

"Well, the next time I call, just be sure to return it," Lew said.

"Scout's honor," Joe saluted.


	10. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

Roger was awake when Claudia entered the room. He looked over with a sleepy and guilty smile. "Hello."

"Roger!" Claudia rushed over to him and bent down, gently embracing him around the shoulders to avoid the wound. "For Heaven's sake, do you know what you've done to me these last few hours?!"

Roger reached up with his right arm and returned the embrace. "I believe I have some idea," he said. "Claudia, I'm so sorry. I never wanted you to be sorrowing."

Claudia sighed and pulled back. "Well, apparently we really were needed," she said. "Or you were, anyway. If only you had had a bullet-resistant vest like that special agent!"

"Yes. . . . I suppose things might have gone quite differently if we had consulted with everyone first," Roger mumbled.

"If I had had any hint that things would turn out as they did, I would have insisted on the consultation," Claudia said.

She rubbed at Roger's hand. "I told everyone that we're going to be married," she confessed. "I thought it would help me to be allowed in."

Roger grinned. "How like you." Sobering, he said, "I really meant what I said, Claudia."

"I hoped you did," Claudia answered. "Oh, and Joe says to tell you that they're all glad you're going to be alright."

"Did he now. Well, that's nice to know," Roger mused. "Perhaps I haven't quite spoiled our friendship for good."

"Maybe not, Roger," Joe's voice suddenly came from the doorway, "but don't think I'll let you get away with murder, either."

Roger and Claudia both started and looked over. Joe had opened the door a slight crack to peer in. And in spite of his words, he looked genuinely happy to see Roger awake and alert.

"Oh, of course," Roger said with that cheeky smile.

"Congratulations on your upcoming wedding, by the way," Joe continued. "Are you planning to hang around Los Angeles?"

Roger exchanged a look with Claudia. "I don't think so," he said. "Once I'm well enough to travel, we'll probably be going back to England."

"That's just as well," Joe nodded. "I'm not sure Los Angeles could survive you two being permanent fixtures here. Unless you're planning to give up your lives of crime, of course."

"Well . . ." Claudia said slowly. "I wouldn't hold my breath, Joe."

"I didn't think so." Joe straightened. "Oh, but Roger, when you're feeling up to it, Toby would like to see you again."

"I'd like to see him as well," Roger said. "How is he?"

"A lot happier now that he knows you're going to be okay," Joe said. "I'd better let you get back to your reunion now. I just wanted to drop in for a minute and check on you myself. And to deliver Toby's message."

"Thank you, Joe," Roger said. "I'll get a check to you at some point soon for services rendered."

Joe shook his head. "Save your money, Roger. This time it's not necessary. Goodnight." He shut the door, leaving Roger and Claudia with each other.

"I wonder what we'll use that money for," Claudia mused.

"Oh, I'm sure we'll think of something," Roger said.

Claudia leaned down, kissing him on the lips. She was sure too.

xxxx

Everyone looked up as Joe returned to the waiting room.

"How is he, Mr. Mannix?" Toby asked. "Did you give him my message?"

"Yeah, I did," Joe smiled, laying a hand on Toby's shoulder. "And he's doing pretty well for being shot at such close range. He'll have some tough days ahead, but he should pull through just fine."

"That's wonderful," Peggy smiled.

"It is," Joe agreed. "Oh, hey, Lew, what's going to happen about the gold that's still missing?"

Lew sighed. "If it's anywhere in that house, I don't know where else to look. Anyway, I think the government boys are taking over now."

Joe nodded. "Well, hopefully they'll turn up something."

"If they don't, maybe you could take the case, Mr. Mannix," Toby suggested.

Joe was amused. "Maybe," he said. "Treasure-hunting isn't really my style.

"And now," he said, "how about we all take in a late dinner, on me? I think only your mother and I had something to eat tonight, and that was just a sandwich."

"Late dinner?" Toby said incredulously. "It's almost morning!"

"Okay, an early breakfast," Joe countered.

"I think that's a good idea," Peggy said. "You need to keep your strength up, young man." She looked to Toby.

"Hey, will I still have to go to school today?" Toby wondered.

Lew looked amused. Peggy shook her head. "No, I don't want you going on no sleep. You'll stay home today."

"Cool!" Toby paused. "You know, I didn't make it to school yesterday, either."

"Well, you'll need to do make-up work for yesterday and today," Peggy said. "But that will come later."

"Aww, it wasn't my fault that guy grabbed me," Toby whined. "Why do I have to do the make-up work?"

"So you won't be confused when you get back to school and pick up where everyone else left off," Joe put in.

"That's a good point," Lew said.

"I guess." Toby thought about it. "Where are we going to eat?"

Joe exchanged a look with Peggy. "Why don't you pick the place, Toby?" he suggested.

"Really? Alright!" Toby looked excited as they headed out the doors. "'Course, there's not too many places open all night. I'd be good just with McDonald's or something."

"That's fine with me. How about it?" Joe glanced from Peggy to Lew.

"I guess fast food wouldn't hurt once in a while," Peggy said. "And it's a special occasion."

"It's been a while since I've had anything to do with a McDonald's," Lew remarked. "I'll try it."

"Then we're agreed." Joe unlocked the car and everyone got in—Lew up front with Joe and Peggy and Toby in the back. "McDonald's it is!" Joe started the engine and began to pull out of the parking lot.

It was still dark, but it would be light soon.

Fitting for a case that was ending happily.


End file.
